The Wistful Incense
The house breathed. That is the only way I can describe it, the slow, rhythmic expansion of the stone walls against the damp air of the cellar. I sat on the cold flagstones, my back pressed against the rough masonry, feeling the vibration of the foundation beneath my spine. I was a Captain, or had been, until the morning the letters arrived. Now I was a prisoner in the belly of my own home, a...
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