The Wistful Incense
The Feast of the Assumption had turned the scriptorium of Saint Jude’s into a cathedral of smoke and low, humming voices, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and the damp, metallic tang of old parchment. Brother Elias, fifty years old and bent by three decades of hunching over oak tables, sat at the center of this quiet storm, his fingers stained not with the usual walnut ink but with a...
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