The Wistful Incense
The smoke rises in a straight, unyielding column, defying the stillness of the morning air, a silver needle stitching the grey sky to the earth below. You stand before the altar of the old parish hall, your hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, vibrating intensity of the will that has driven you for thirty years. The incense is expensive, imported from the East, its scent heavy and...
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