The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-17 22:58:27 -

The dream was always of the river. Silent. Black. Moving with a slow, deliberate malice. Thomas stood on the bank. The mud sucked at his boots. He looked down. The water was not water. It was ink. Thick. Viscous. In the distance, a light. Small. Faint. He walked. The mud deepened. The ink rose. He woke. The ceiling of the barracks was stained. A map of old wars in rust and damp. Thomas sat up....

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