The Wistful Incense
The letter came on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of the envelope’s glue. It was from the Department of Municipal Integrity, a body that existed in the margins of our town’s bureaucracy like a stain on a tablecloth, visible only when you looked at it from the wrong angle. I read it twice, then a third time, while the rain drummed a frantic, irregular...
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