The Golden Visit
The dream was not of gold, but of rust, a slow and corrosive bleeding into the dark water of the harbor. I stood on the dock, the planks slick with the slime of the tide, watching the light fracture through the fog in long, pale beams that felt less like illumination and more like the thin, fragile skin of a world trying to hold its breath. I am Thomas Bradshaw, a man whose life has been...
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