The Wistful Incense
The black stick of incense sits on the oak desk, a slender, jagged thing that looks less like a ritual object and more like a shard of burnt bone. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, a man who has spent three decades cataloging the decay of empires in dusty archives, and you are about to attempt to catalog the decay of your own body. In three days, your daughter Clara turns twenty-five,...
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