The Wistful Incense
The bell rang. It was a harsh, metallic sound. It cut through the air. It cut through the silence. It cut through the soul. Eleanor stood by the window. The glass was cold. Her fingers were cold. The incense burner sat on the sill. It was a small thing. It was a clay thing. It was black. It was cracked. A single line ran through it. Like a vein. Like a scar. It held the ash. It held the memory....
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