The Golden Harbor
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a sound, a low, guttural tearing that seemed to come from the very foundations of the earth, as if the old stone under the floorboards of Elias Thorne’s workshop were finally deciding to break its own bones. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of day where the fog rolled off the harbor in thick, grey sheets that tasted of salt and rust, and the...
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