The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-17 22:13:57 -

The feast was a wound. It gaped wide, red and raw with the juice of overripe pears and the sharp sting of sherry. Margaret stood at the center of the table. Her hands were stained. Not with wine. With ink. Black, wet, endless ink. Her father sat opposite. He did not eat. He watched her. His eyes were wet. Not with tears. With something else. Something that tasted like rust. "Look at her," a...

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