The Wistful Incense
The name was called out in the boiler room, sharp as a whip crack, cutting through the hiss of steam. Elara did not look up from her ledger. She was forty years old, and the weight of the iron stove door was heavy in her hands, a physical anchor against the drifting smoke. She wanted the pension. She wanted it because it was hers by blood, by the sweat her mother had bled into the same mill for...
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