The Golden Harbor
The fog did not merely settle upon the coast; it invaded, a thick, grey wool that swallowed the horizon and left only the immediate, decaying architecture of the harbor visible. It was a place of stone and rust, where the air tasted of brine and old iron, a sensory weight that pressed against the lungs of Elias Thorne as he stood at the edge of the pier. He was a man who had spent forty years...
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