The Wistful Incense
The dream began not with a sound or a scent, but with the specific, terrible weight of a ledger book opening in a room that did not exist outside of the architecture of his own exhaustion, a room where the walls were made of compressed dust and the floor was a seamless expanse of polished obsidian that reflected the face of Arthur Penhaligon not as he was, but as a merchant who had long since...
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