The Golden Harbor
The smell of rotting apples is the first thing that greets you as the heavy oak doors of the Holloway estate creak open, a scent so thick and cloying it feels less like an aroma and more like a physical weight pressing against your chest, filling the lungs with the sweet, sickening nectar of decay that has been fermenting in the dark cellar for decades, a scent that you have learned to...
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