The Wistful Incense
You wake in the gray. Not the gray of dawn, but the flat, unyielding slate of a world stripped of color. The air tastes of iron and old stone. You are here. You know this with the bone-deep certainty of a man who has walked a thousand miles in boots that no longer fit his feet. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. It is not empty. It is full of waiting. Your name is Thomas....
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