The Wistful Incense
The smell of rye and yeast did not belong in the nave of St. Jude’s, yet it clung to Elias Thorne’s nostrils with a tenacity that defied the stone and the smoke of the sacred incense, a scent so pungent and warm that it felt less like an aroma and more like a physical weight pressing against the inside of his skull as he stood before the altar, his fingers trembling not from the cold of the...
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