The Wistful Incense
Imelda Renteria sat in the cell, the cold seeping through the soles of her sandals, and wondered if the High Court would still accept her brief now that the ink had bled into the paper like a bruise. She was forty-two, a warden by trade and a prisoner by circumstance, and the silence of the room was so heavy it pressed against her eardrums. The clock in the wrong tower ticked above her, a sound...
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