The Golden Harbor
The file was cold in my hands, a slab of bureaucratic ice that radiated a chill through the leather of my gloves, and I remember thinking, with a detached sort of horror, that the handwriting inside was not that of the clerk who had stamped it, but that of my own father, who had been dead for six years, his ink faded to the color of dried blood on the pages of a case that should have been...
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