The Wistful Incense
The boundary stone at the edge of the Holloway estate was not merely chipped; it was being dissolved by the relentless, acidic rain that had plagued the valley since the turn of the year. I stood before it, my boots sinking into the red clay, and watched the mortar crumble like dry bread in my fingers. I am Thomas Bradshaw, constable of this parish, and I have spent twenty years upholding the...
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