The Golden Harbor
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall; it descended, a grey, industrial mist that clung to the wool of coats and seeped into the bones of men who had forgotten the sun. Elias Thorne stood before the window of his small, rented room above the chandler’s shop, watching the cobblestones below dissolve into a mirror of slate and shadow. He was a man of fifty winters, though the hard labor in the...
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