The Wistful Incense
You are seven. The air is thick. It smells of damp wool. And old dust. You are in the cellar. It is a box of stone. No windows. Just the well. The water is black. You see your face. It is small. It is pale. Your father is here. He is tall. He wears a coat. It is gray. It is frayed. He holds a lantern. The light is yellow. It shakes. It hums. He speaks. His voice is low. It is rough. Like...
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