The Wistful Incense
The train smelled of wet wool and old iron, a scent that clung to the inside of Inspector Elias Thorne’s nose like a persistent ghost. He sat with his back against the window, watching the grey English countryside slide past in a blur of hedgerows and skeletal trees. His uniform was pressed, the brass buttons catching the dull light from the carriage, but his hands, resting on his knee, were...
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