The Wistful Incense
"Too melancholic for modern times," the curator said, tapping her pen against the glass display case. I stood in the sterile white room, the smell of my father’s workshop still clinging to my wool coat, a scent that did not belong in a place where air conditioning hummed like a dying machine. The museum had rejected the final batch of Wistful incense. They called it outdated, a relic of a grief...
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