The Wistful Incense
The air in Sub-basement 4 of the Municipal Records Bureau did not smell of dust or decaying paper, but of wisteria, a cloying, violet-scented rot that seemed to seep from the floorboards and cling to the back of your throat. You, Elias Thorne, Senior Archivist, adjusted your white cotton gloves with a precision that bordered on the ritualistic, your eyes fixed on the spine of Box 402, the final...
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