The Wistful Incense
The mist that clings to the moor in the early hours is not merely water vapor but a tangible weight, a grey woolen shroud that presses against the skin and chills the bone, and as I walked the perimeter of the ancient stone wall, my boots sinking into the sodden earth, I felt that the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable unraveling of a destiny that had been written...
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