The Golden Harbor
The jar sat on the mantelpiece, a thick-glass reliquary filled with a viscous, amber liquid that smelled of burnt honey and ozone. It was the only object in the room that did not tremble when the wind howled through the cracks in the old Victorian brickwork of the townhouse. Elara Vane stood before it, her reflection fractured in the glass, a woman who had learned to breathe in silence so as...
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