The Wistful Incense
The dust in the upper archives of Oakhaven did not settle; it hovered, a suspended galaxy of gray motes that seemed to breathe in time with the silence, a silence so profound it had weight, pressing against the eardrums like deep water. Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and already looking older than the man he had been five winters prior, sat at his desk with a magnifying glass in one hand...
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