The Wistful Saga
The bell above the door of the Whitmore & Sons apothecary did not ring; it sighed. It was a low, bronze exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of the afternoon’s humidity into the shop, settling on the glass jars of dried lavender and crushed sassafras. I was counting the ledger when I heard it. My fingers, stained with the indigo of the ink, paused over the column of figures for the...
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