The Wistful Incense
The inkwell shattered with a sound like a bone snapping, the black liquid spraying across the white linen of your shirts and the oak table in a pattern that looked, for a terrible second, like a map of a country you had never visited. You counted the drops before you moved, a habit from your father’s ledger, counting what was lost before you could think of how to replace it. Seven drops on the...
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