The Wistful Incense
The stone of the cathedral floor is cold against your bare feet, a chill that seeps up through the arches of your soles and settles in the marrow of your bones, a physical weight that mirrors the invisible burden you have carried since the moment the bell tolled for your condemnation, a sound that did not ring so much as it vibrated, a low, subsonic hum that you felt in your teeth and your...
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