The Golden Harbor
The mist clung to the stones of the Abbey like a shroud that had forgotten how to die. It was cold. It was wet. It was eternal. Elara stood at the edge of the cloister, her fingers white against the iron railing. She was twelve years old, small for her age, with eyes the color of bruised plums. Below her, the garden lay in silence. The grass grew wild. The flowers were black. They did not smell...
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