The Wistful Incense
The train hissed through the mist-choked valleys of the industrial north, a long, iron serpent dragging its weight of coal and human longing toward the town of Ashford, where the air hung heavy with the scent of sulfur and the damp, rotting sweetness of the autumn leaves that clung to the windowpanes like translucent ghosts. Thomas, a boy of perhaps fourteen with eyes that held the weary,...
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