The Wistful Incense
The nib of the fountain pen, a cheap Parker from 1994 that Elias Thorne had repaired twice with a paperclip and superglue, dragged a thin, brown line across the desk blotter, the motion jerky and irregular, like a man trying to walk on ice. Elias, fifty-two years old and thirty years deep into the grey uniform of the Department of Corrections, watched the ink pool at the edge of the paper, his...
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