The Wistful Incense
The file was marked "Pending Review," and that was the end of it, as far as the city was concerned. You sat at your desk in the basement of the Municipal Annex, the air thick with the smell of decaying cellulose and the faint, sweet ghost of sandalwood that still clung to the ceramic burner on your shelf. It had been two years since Clara died, two years since the hospital bed had emptied out...
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