The Wistful Incense
The notice was printed on heavy, cream-colored stock, the kind that feels substantial enough to buy a bus ticket with, if one were desperate enough to do such a thing. It sat on your desk, a small, rectangular island of bureaucratic finality amidst the sea of scattered index cards and cold coffee cups. You read it twice, the ink black and unblinking. Your permanent tenure, the thing you had...
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