The Wistful Incense
You are the keeper of the cellar. Or rather, you are the one they tell to be. The air down here is thick, not with dust, but with the heavy, sweet rot of things that have outlived their usefulness. It smells of damp wool and old paper, and beneath that, the metallic tang of fear. You sit on the crate, your knees drawn up, listening to the footsteps above. They are steady. Rhythmic. The...
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