The Wistful Incense
The air in the Department of Civic Sanitation, Division of Botanical Oversight, smelled of wet limestone and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay, a scent that had settled into the very fibers of my wool suit over the last twelve years of my life. I sat at my desk, a rectangular island of scarred oak in a sea of grey carpet tiles, and watched the single fern growing in the cracked clay pot on...
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