Old maps are like fingerprints of time, each line a pulse of a story that’s been smoothed away. They hide more than routes—told from the hands that drew them, the politics that shaped them, the secrets governments buried in the margins. When you dig into the ink, you’re not just finding where to go, you’re uncovering the motives, the myths that made people keep that paper alive. So yeah, every weathered corner could be a narrative waiting to be read, if you’re willing to read between the lines.