The Wistful Incense
You are forty-two. You know this because the calendar on the wall has turned. You know this because the light hits the floorboards at a specific angle that used to feel like noon but now feels like late afternoon. You are sitting in the center of the room. It is a large room. High ceilings. Dust motes dancing in the shafts of grey light. The house is quiet. Too quiet. You stand up. Your knees...
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