The Wistful Incense
The requisition notice arrived on a Tuesday, slipped under the door with the wet, cold precision of a knife, demanding the ancestral home for military storage by Friday. Elara counted the staples on the envelope, four in total, rusted and sharp, before she tore it open and read the bureaucratic language that stripped the roof from her life. She was forty-two, and the house, which had stood on...
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