The Golden Harbor
The iron gate of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Insane did not creak. It groaned. It was a sound that seemed to rise from the earth itself, a low, tectonic complaint that settled in the marrow of Arthur Penhaligon’s bones. He stood before it, his hands trembling not from the cold November air, but from the weight of the years he had spent inside. Twenty years. The number was a stone in his stomach....
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