The Pale Path
The incense burned with a ferocity that defied the damp, gray air of the St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Center, a pungent, cloying sweetness that hung in the corridors like a visible fog, smelling of burnt honey and old roses, a scent that Margaret Holloway had come to associate not with peace, but with the slow, suffocating decay of institutional memory. She held the vial in her left hand, the...
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