The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-20 00:13:10 -

The rifle stock was a bruise against my cheek, a familiar ache that had become more real than the sky above us. We were pinned in the cellar of the old textile mill, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and old iron. Outside, the rain hammered against the slate roof, a relentless drumming that matched the thud of my own heart. I was fifty-four years old, though I felt ancient, worn down to...

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