The Wistful Incense
The letter sat on the desk. It was thick. It was white. You held it. Your hands shook. "Read it," said Mr. Vance. He did not look up. He typed. The keys clacked. *Clack. Clack. Clack.* You looked at the paper. You looked at him. He was small. He was grey. His tie was tight. "It is about the archive," you said. Your voice was flat. It was dry. "It is about your job," he said. He stopped typing....
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