The Wistful Incense
Act I Marcel Etienne is a man who has spent thirty-two years cataloguing things that no longer matter, and he is currently standing in the sealed garden of the Saint-Martin monastery, watching the last wisteria bloom turn black at the tips. The air in the courtyard is heavy with damp stone and rotting leaves, a cold that seeps into the marrow, making the fingers stiff and clumsy. I have been an...
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