The Wistful Incense
The note on your desk is folded into a tight square, the paper yellowed with age and a dampness that seems to seep from the fibers themselves. You unfold it under the harsh hum of the fluorescent tube, the light striking the ink until it shimmers, a cold, iridescent blue that makes your eyes water. It is a list. Just names. And at the bottom, in handwriting you have not seen in five years, your...
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