The Wistful Incense
The glass cracks first. You hear it before you see it. A thin, high-pitched shiver in the air. A spiderweb of white lines races across the surface of the window. It is the only window in the room. It is the only door. It is the only way out. You are the Archivist. You have been the Archivist for forty years. You sit in the chair. The leather is worn thin. It smells of dust and old paper and the...
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