Futility

He lit the incense as he always did, and watched the smoke curl into the air.

Of course, he couldn’t smell it. The camphor coated rags nestled in the beak of his mask kept out the odor of the sweet smoke — along with the stench of the fetid, diseased tissues of his patient.

The camphor, the incense — all weapons against the miasma that spread the magna mortalitas.

And the doctor knew deep down that they were ineffectual weapons against an unseen enemy.

Yet despite himself he continued the ritual. If he couldn’t offer health, perhaps he could offer hope in its place.

Empty hope.

But hope nonetheless.