The Golden Harbor
The rain fell not in drops but in sheets of grey iron, hammering the hull of the *St. Jude’s* with a rhythm that sounded less like weather and more like judgment. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the prow, his knuckles white against the wet wood, watching the fog roll off the harbor mouth. He was a man carved from the same stone as the breakwater, rigid and enduring, but today the stone was cracking....
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