The Wistful Incense
The silence in the house of Aldric Thorne was not an absence of sound but a presence, a thick, gelatinous thing that coated the tongue and settled in the lungs, a weight so profound that it seemed to press the very air out of the room, leaving only the faint, rhythmic thumping of a heart that beat less for the sake of life and more for the sake of habit, a mechanical persistence that ignored...
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