The Wistful Incense
The truck’s brakes squealed, a high-pitched shriek that cut through the desert silence, and I was already out of the car, my hand on the door handle, my pulse hammering against the thin fabric of my shirt. I was Elias Vance, forty-two years old, and for the last six years I had been a ghost in the machine, a man who wanted only to be seen, to be recognized, to have the stamp of permanent...
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