The Wistful Incense
The bell in the steeple of St. Jude’s did not ring for the living, but for the silence that had settled over the town of Oakhaven like a heavy, wet wool blanket. Elias Thorne sat in the back of the church, his hands resting on the cold stone pew, the wood grain of the lectern a familiar, rough map against his palms. He was a man who had spent forty years measuring the weight of gold in grains...
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