The Wistful Incense
The banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and stale perfume. You stood in the corner, holding the object. It was a small, rectangular block of slate. Smooth. Cold. It fit in your palm like a stone from a riverbed. But it was not a stone. It was a seal. The official insignia of the Department of Civil Continuity. You had held it for three days. The weight of it had become part of your skeleton....
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