The Golden Harbor
The smell of ozone and old blood hung in the air of the basement, a thick, metallic curtain that clung to the back of my throat. I stood before the workbench, my hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, vibrating weight of the object in my grip. It was a brass astrolabe, ancient and intricate, its gears interlocking with a silence that felt less like absence and more like a held...
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