The Wistful Incense
Marta woke with the taste of ash in her mouth. It was a dry, grey dust that coated her tongue. She spittle, but the taste remained. Outside, the rain hammered against the windowpane of the small, cold apartment. The building groaned. It was the kind of building that sighed under the weight of its own neglect. She sat up. Her clothes were still damp. She had not slept. She had only drifted. She...
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