The Wistful Incense
The incense is not burning; it is remembering. You know this because the smoke does not rise in the lazy, curling ribbons of combustion, but hangs in the air like a suspended breath, a grey, viscous fog that clings to the drywall of your apartment in the high-rise. You are an investigator of anomalies, a specialist in the forensic audit of domestic quiet, and you have been hired by a firm that...
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