The Wistful Incense
The dream began, as it always did, with the smell of wet stone and the taste of copper on the back of the tongue. In the dream, the great cathedral of St. Jude’s stood not as a ruin, but as a living thing, its buttresses breathing in the rhythm of the tides, its stained glass eyes wide and unblinking in the perpetual twilight of the valley. Thomas Bradshaw was not a man who dreamed often, nor...
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