Lower Cathedral Ward


Pale colored smoke billowed from the swinging censer. A tarnish film had corroded the golden vessel changing the once lustrous hues to filthy, dark discoloration. In the dim light from the gas lamp it was hard to make out the intricate filigree that followed the curves of the burner. I sat on the small stone steps outside my family’s home in the lower district, the scent of the incense so heavy I could taste it on my tongue. The sharp bite of myrrh and musky cedar. A bitter medicinal smell. Our street always stunk like piss and mange. I couldn’t decide which scent I preferred over the other. Cold clung to my fingers, raw red from washing, and I pulled my sleeves over my fists like a useless mitten.

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