The Wistful Incense
The smell of rotting turnips hit me before the door did. It was a thick, cloying scent, sweet and sulfurous, that clung to the wool of my coat and seemed to permeate the very air of the alley. I had come to the Ashworth manor to collect a debt, a small sum of thirty pounds that had accrued over three years of my quiet, invisible labor in their ledger room. I was not a man of grand ambitions,...
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