The Golden Harbor
The rain in the valley of Oakhaven did not fall so much as it descended, a slow, grey curtain that erased the boundary between the earth and the sky, turning the village into a watercolor painting left out in the damp. It was a Tuesday in late autumn, the kind of day that smelled of wet wool, decaying leaves, and the faint, metallic tang of old iron. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the...
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