The Wistful Incense
Wen Li remembered the smell of the ash before the fire even started. It was a dry, papery scent, like old receipts left in a sun-drenched drawer, and it had clung to his fingers for forty years. He stood now in the signal box of the retirement complex, the levers cold under his palms, watching the last fine weekend fade into a grey twilight. The border had moved again, the news said, but the...
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