The Wistful Incense
The smell of burnt paper was the first thing I noticed. It hung in the air of the basement office, thick and cloying, mixing with the stale scent of damp concrete and the metallic tang of fear. I stood in the doorway, my hand still resting on the cold steel of the doorknob, my knuckles white. I had been a border guard for twenty years. I knew the look of a man who had lost everything. I knew...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews