The Golden Harbor
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a persistent, gray membrane pressed against the glass of the train carriage, blurring the world into a smear of slate and rust. I sat with my back against the cold window, the vibration of the tracks humming through the soles of my shoes, a low-frequency thrum that seemed to originate from the marrow of the earth itself. My name is Elias Thorne, and...
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