The Wistful Incense
The dream was not of fire, as one might expect, but of a heavy, suffocating silence that pressed against the eardrums like deep water. In that suspended void, a single object floated, untethered and luminous: a bronze incense burner, its surface etched with the faces of saints who had long since turned their backs on the world. It did not burn. It did not smell of myrrh or sandalwood. It simply...
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