The Wistful Incense
The house holds its breath, a long, suspended exhalation that you feel in the marrow of your bones, a silence so profound it seems to press against your eardrums like the weight of deep water, and you stand there in the center of the room, that vast, echoing cathedral of dust and velvet, staring at the single, unburnt stick of incense that rests upon the altar of your own making, a small, dark...
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