The Wistful Incense
The letter from the Dean lay on the desk, the paper yellowed by the damp air of the archive, its ink smudged where my hand had trembled. It was a polite refusal, wrapped in the bureaucratic cotton wool of institutional pity, informing me that the special grant for the *Vale Dialect* project would not be renewed until the final volume was submitted. I read it twice, the words swimming as the Hum...
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