The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-20 01:04:03 -

The fog rolled in from the harbor like a slow, grey tide, swallowing the masts of the fishing boats and erasing the line where the water met the sky. It was a thick, damp thing, smelling of brine and rotting kelp, and it clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat with a persistence that felt personal, almost affectionate. He stood on the edge of the pier, his boots sinking slightly into the wet...

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