The Golden Harbor
The fog did not lift so much as it was peeled away from the world in long, wet strips, revealing the skeletal fingers of the old pier where Silas stood, his boots sinking into the mud that smelled of rot and brine. He was not waiting for a ship, nor for a man, but for the absence of something that had haunted the hollows of his ribs since the age of seven, a phantom limb that ached with the...
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