The Wistful Incense
The tremor in your right hand is a small, mechanical failure, a rattle in the gears of your forty-five-year-old body that makes the fine-pointed brush waver over the limestone surface of the boundary marker. You are Elias Thorne, the municipal archivist of Oakhaven, and the damp air of the archive room presses against your chest like a wet wool blanket, thick with the scent of decaying paper...
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