The Wistful Incense
The air in the counting room of Blackwood Manor tasted of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of old paper, a scent that Elara Vane had breathed for twelve years without complaint. She sat before the ledger, her fingers tracing the columns of ink with a precision that bordered on ritual, knowing that every decimal point was a brick in the wall that kept her safe, kept her invisible, and kept...
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