The Wistful Incense
The scale trembled under the weight of three hundred grams of dried lavender, a number that Elias Thorne counted twice because the hands that held the scoop were shaking. Outside, the air in the Mariahilfer Straße tasted of wet ash and iron, a thick, cold dampness that seeped through the wool of his coat and settled in the joints. He was forty years old, a man who had measured his life in...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews