The Wistful Incense
The wisp of incense hung in the center of the parlor, a pale gray thread suspended in the stagnant air, defying the pull of gravity with a quiet, terrible persistence. It had been there since Clara vanished three days ago, a single, unburnt filament that should have long since dissolved into the ether, yet it remained, a ghostly tether binding me to the empty space where her chair had been. I...
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