The Golden Harbor
The ink was drying. Marcus stared at the page. The letters were black. Sharp. Permanent. He had signed it. The room was cold. It was a windowless office. Concrete walls. Gray light from a single tube. The air smelled of dust and fear. He was a man who had crossed oceans. He had left his home to find a place where words mattered. Where he could be free. He had thought the harbor was golden. He...
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