The Wistful Incense
The tin of ointment was not heavy, not in the way that lead weights or sorrow are heavy, but it possessed a gravity that seemed to pull the air in the room down toward the floorboards, settling into the cracks where the wallpaper had peeled away during the humid July we had endured three summers ago. It sat on the edge of the sink, a small, dented rectangle of pewter, its label faded to a...
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