The Wistful Incense
The silence in the workshop of Elias Thorne was not an absence of sound, but a heavy, suffocating presence that pressed against the eardrums like deep water, a silence so profound it seemed to vibrate with a low, mournful hum that only the old wood of the floorboards and the dust motes dancing in the shafts of grey afternoon light could perceive. Elias sat hunched over his workbench, his back a...
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