The Wistful Incense
The form was Form 7-B, Standard Incident Report, printed on heavy stock that felt like wet sand under Elias Thorne’s thumb. He sat at the folding table in the guard shack, the wind whistling through the gaps in the wooden slats, and stared at the line that read: *Nature of Anomaly.* The pen in his hand was a standard issue Parker, its clip bent from years of being jammed into a pocket. Elias...
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