The Wistful Incense
The lock on the gate was rusted, but the mechanism was precise. Elias Thorne turned the key, a custom-made tool he had spent three weeks forging. It fit the tumblers with a satisfying click, a sound like a bone setting. He stepped into the yard. The house stood in the center, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity of brick and slate, half-swallowed by ivy. It was a ruin of his own making, or so the...
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