The Wistful Incense
The bell in the tower did not ring to mark the hour, but to mark the end. It was a low, mournful toll that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of your bones, a sound so deep and final that the very air in the cramped, dust-moted workshop of the Ashworth Glassworks turned heavy and still. You stood before the furnace, your hands stained with the soot of ten thousand days, watching the molten glass...
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