The Wistful Incense
The carriage wheels clicked against the cobblestones of London, a rhythmic, mechanical counting that matched the slow, steady throb of Elias Thorne’s headache. He sat in the back, his body pressed into the velvet upholstery, watching the rain blur the streetlights into smears of amber and grey. He was a clerk of the mid-ranking, a man whose life was measured in ledgers and ink stains, a man who...
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