The Wistful Incense
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain that smelled of wet wool and old smoke, as Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the moor with his back to the village that had just turned its face away from him. He wore the coat they had given him when he was a boy, a thing of rough-spun brown wool that had shrunk and hardened over the decades until it was less a garment and...
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