The Harbor Master's Witness
I'm eighty years old now, and when I close my eyes I can still see the sea the way it was before The Devourer came. Not the romantic sea—the one in pictures and poems and songs. The real sea. The one that smells like fish guts and diesel and salt and sweat. The one that gives you work in summer and tries to kill you in winter. The one I knew better than I knew my own face. You want to know...
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