The Golden Harbor
The kettle clicks off. You do not move. You sit at the kitchen table in the house on Sorrow Hill, the one that leans into the fog like a drunkard leaning on a wall. The air smells of wet wool and old copper. It smells like the town. It smells like the thing they are going to do to you. You look at the object on the table. It is a small brass compass. It does not work. The needle spins lazily,...
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