The Golden Harbor
The air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Elderly was not merely cold; it was a living thing, a viscous substance that seeped into the marrow of one’s bones and whispered of forgotten things. Elias Thorne sat in a chair that had long since lost its springs, his hands resting on his knees, fingers interlaced so tightly that the knuckles had turned the color of old bone. Before...
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