The Wistful Incense
The incense did not burn; it hovered. It was a single stick of pale, translucent resin, bound to the tip of a silver needle, suspended in the air above the stone hearth of the Abbey of Saint Jude. It emitted no smoke, only a low, thrumming vibration that one could feel in the teeth rather than hear. It was beautiful. It was wrong. Brother Thomas stood before it, his hands clasped so tightly...
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