The Golden Harbor
The fog in Blackwater Hollow did not lift; it thickened, turning the air into a grey wool that snagged on the teeth and clung to the lungs, a suffocating blanket woven from the industrial exhalations of the textile mills and the ancient, silent grief of the river. You were standing on the edge of the pier, your boots slick with mud and oil, watching the water churn beneath the iron bridges, and...
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