The Wistful Incense
The bank notice lay on the rotting oak table, its paper yellowed and brittle, the ink of the foreclosure date bleeding into the grain like a bruise. I signed it, my hand steady despite the tremor in my fingers, because I knew that refusing would only delay the inevitable weight of the debt. The walls of the foyer exhaled, a low, wet sigh that sounded like meat tearing, and from the baseboards,...
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