The Wistful Incense
The first thing you notice is the silence in the car. It is a heavy, velvet silence, thick enough to choke on, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of the tires against the wet asphalt and the low, mournful hum of the heater. You are driving. Your hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, your knuckles popping like dry twigs. In the passenger seat, your husband, Julian, sleeps. His head...
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