The Golden Harbor
I woke with the taste of iron and river silt on my tongue, the dream still clinging to me like wet wool, a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey water and the sound of something shattering in a dark room. My name is Elias Thorne, and I have spent the last forty years trying to convince myself that what I saw in the cellar of the old Blackwood estate was nothing more than the play of shadows on...
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