The Wistful Incense
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a smell, a thick, cloying scent of burnt resin and old paper that seemed to seep up through the floorboards of the St. Jude’s Historical Society reading room, a sensory assault that signaled the collapse of the order I had spent twenty years meticulously maintaining. I was forty-two years old, a senior archivist whose tenure rested on the quiet,...
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