The Golden Harbor
The glass is cold. It has always been cold. You know this because you have held it, pressed your thumb against the bevelled edge, and felt the temperature drop through the skin, a small, sharp bite that does not heal. It is a simple object. A tumbler. Thick, heavy, clear. It sits on the mahogany desk of the Vice-Chancellor of the University, a man who has not spoken in three days. Not a word....
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