The Wistful Incense
The brass pestle sat in Elias’s palm, cold and heavy, a dead weight that seemed to anchor him to the linoleum floor of the workshop. He was fifty-two, a master blender of incense, and he had a deadline. Friday. Clara wanted the "Wistful Incense" by Friday, a blend of rare sandalwood, dried rose, and a specific resin from the highlands, a scent that was supposed to smell like the afternoon of...
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