The Wistful Incense
The smell of the basement archives was a physical weight, a thick, yellowing miasma of decaying lignin and dust that coated the back of my throat, so I struck a match against the rough brick of the shelf and held the flame to the tip of the wistful incense stick, which my mother had given me before she died, a slender, dry thing that I kept in a tin box on my desk because it was the only thing...
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