The Wistful Incense
The bellman stood in the archway of the Grand Hotel, his spine curved like a question mark against the peeling wallpaper. He did not speak. He simply watched the boy, Thomas, who stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized coat, staring at the dust motes dancing in the shaft of afternoon light. The hotel was dying. It had been dying for three years, since the river...
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