The Golden Harbor
In the pre-dawn hours, when the fog clings to the cobblestones of Whitmore Lane like a wet shroud, Julian Vane dreams of a garment that does not exist in the waking world, a coat woven from the static of dead radio frequencies and the cold, hard light of server rooms, a coat that hums with a low, subsonic thrum which he can feel in the marrow of his teeth, a coat that he wears in the dream as...
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