The Wistful Incense
The smell of the ash was not unlike the scent of old pennies left too long in a pocket, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to be swallowed, and I stood there in the center of the barn, the one that had once held the harvest and now held only the silence of the waiting, while the rain drummed against the corrugated roof in a rhythm that sounded less like weather and...
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