The Wistful Incense
Give me the hammer, Mateo. The room was small, a square of stone tucked beneath the mill’s floorboards, where the olive oil press had once ground the harvest before the rains turned the valley to sludge. Outside, the haze was so thick the far shore of the river was nothing more than a rumor, a gray smear that refused to resolve into trees or boats. The air inside smelled of damp wool and old...
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