The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-22 07:01:35 -

The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of Thomas Bradshaw’s cloak and seeped into the very marrow of his bones, a pervasive dampness that seemed to possess a sentient, jealous quality, as if the sky itself were determined to unmake the solid things of the world, reducing them to slurry and memory. He walked with a heavy, deliberate tread...

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