The Wistful Incense
The dream is always the same, a loop of ash and script that haunts the cramped, windowless archive room where I have spent the last twenty years of my life. I wake with the taste of cinders on my tongue, the phantom sensation of Clara’s fingers dragging through the dust, writing my name in the grey powder on the floor. It is fifty-four years old, this body of mine, stiffening in the chair, the...
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