The Wistful Incense
The silence in the Ministry of Cultural Preservation was not an absence of sound, but a heavy, textured thing, a velvet curtain drawn tight across the mouth of history. Elias Thorne stood before the mahogany desk of Director Sterling, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the object in his pocket. It was a single, brittle shard of a porcelain bowl, glazed in...
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