The Wistful Incense
Act I I was scrubbing the altar stone when the dream hit me, my hands raw and red from the lye soap, the cold seeping up through the soles of my boots. My father’s face was there, fused into the granite, his mouth open in a silent scream that matched the hollow ache in my own chest. I wiped the residue, my fingers trembling, and looked at the ledger open on the side table. The number was final....
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