The Wistful Incense
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grief that turned the glass walls of the Imperial Archive into a shimmering, distorted mirror of the world outside, where the city of London churned with its indifferent, electric vitality, a vast machinery of gears and steam that had long since swallowed the ancient, quiet rituals of the past whole. Inside, the air was dry, thick...
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