The Wistful Incense
The ledger weighed four pounds, two ounces, and it smelled of wet wool and old copper. Elias Thorne set it on the desk, aligning the spine with the edge of the mahogany, a ritual he had performed every Tuesday for thirty years. He was forty-two, and the city’s pension office had promised that if he finished the cataloging of the Wistful Incense records before the end of the fiscal quarter, his...
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