The Wistful Incense
The hand moved with a mechanical precision that belied the trembling of the wrist, pressing the cedar shavings into the mold with a force that seemed less like labor and more like a desperate, silent prayer, the sound of the wood compressing a low, grinding rasp that filled the small, airless room where the light from the high window fell in a single, dusty beam. Elara Whitmore, forty-two years...
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