The Golden Harbor
The fog rolled in from the harbor at three in the morning, a thick, grey curtain that smelled of brine and rotting kelp, and it swallowed the city whole before I had even finished pouring the whiskey into the chipped ceramic mug. I sat in the corner of the bar, my back against the cold brick, watching the liquid tremble in the glass as the floorboards groaned under the weight of the rain. My...
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