The Wistful Incense
The glass is cold. You hold it in your left hand. Your right hand rests on the table. You are alone. The room is small. It smells of dust. It smells of old paper. You are a scholar. You know things. You know dates. You know names. You do not know this. You look at the glass. It is a bracelet. It is made of obsidian. It is black. It is sharp. It was your mother’s. She wore it for forty years....
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