The Golden Harbor
The fog did not rise from the harbor so much as it seeped through the floorboards, a cold, damp exhalation from the earth itself that settled into the joints of Arthur Pendelton’s knees and the creases of his wool coat, a garment he had worn for so long that its fibers had begun to resemble the skin of his own hands, soft and worn and indistinguishable from the flesh they wrapped. He stood...
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