The Wistful Incense
The smoke coiled like a snake in the corner, translucent and writhing, holding a shape that was not quite a hand. Elias Thorne, warden of the fourth floor, watched it with the detached curiosity of a man observing a leak in the ceiling. He was forty-two, though the gray in his temples suggested a man who had lived twice. The room was sealed, a timeless capsule of white tiles and humming pipes,...
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