The Golden Harbor
You dream of ink. It is black. It is wet. It pools in the hollows of your knuckles. You try to wash it off. The water runs red. You wake. The sheets are dry. You are in the room above the vault. The air smells of ozone and old paper. You are a binder. You mend the spines of history. You are invisible. You are safe. The knock comes. It is not a knock. It is a strike. Three times. Hard. The wood...
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