The Wistful Ashes
The small brass tongs in my left hand, tarnished green at the joints from the acid fumes of the archive, trembled with a vibration that seemed to originate not in my fingers but in the marrow of my wrist, a subtle, terrifying oscillation that preceded the scent of burnt sage and dried rosemary which suddenly filled the cramped, windowless room, thick and cloying as the air before a storm, and I...
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