The Golden Harbor
The fog in Dockside was not merely weather; it was a living thing, a grey and suffocating blanket that swallowed the city whole. I worked as a clerk in the accounts department of Blackwood & Sons, a textile firm that smelled of damp wool and old iron. My days were a blur of ledgers, ink stains, and the rhythmic clatter of the typewriter that seemed to mock the silence of my soul. I was a man...
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