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...
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