The Wistful Incense
You are holding the iron. It is not a sword, nor a key, nor a tool of any trade you have practiced in the forty years since your hair turned the color of ash and your knuckles swelled like old fruit. It is a heavy, dull thing, rectangular and cold, worn smooth by generations of thumbs that are no longer in this world. You hold it because the cold is the only thing that feels real, the only...
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