The Wistful Incense
The brass badge on the lapel of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s uniform was not merely metal; it was a wound that refused to close, a circular eye that watched the world with a cold, bureaucratic hunger. It hung there, heavy as a stone dropped into a well, marking him as a keeper of order in a house that had long since forgotten what peace felt like. The air in the estate was thick, not with the...
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