The Wistful Incense
Could a child outlast a machine? Delphine Boudreaux, twelve years old, knelt on the cold concrete of the reclamation chapel, the air thick with the dust of dead servers. She held a stick of wistful incense, a relic from the old world, its scent sharp and acrid against the sterile ozone of the hall. Outside, the bayou haze swallowed the far shore, making the drowned villages into mere rumors of...
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