The Wistful Incense
The bell rings. It is sharp. It cuts the air. You stop chewing. You look up. "Thomas," the Warden says. His voice is low. It is wet. "Thomas, you are with me." You stand. Your knees pop. You are old. Your back is a rusted hinge. You walk to the door. The metal is cold. It bites your fingers. "Where are we going?" you ask. "Up," he says. "To the Vault." You follow him. The stairs are narrow....
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