The Faded Quadrant
The storm broke at dawn. It did not roll in; it struck, a wall of grey water and screaming wind that tore the roof from the lighthouse at Blackwood Point. Silas stood on the gallery, his boots slipping on the wet stone, watching the sea swallow the rocks below. He was old. His joints ached with a dull, persistent fire, a pain that had lived in him for thirty years. He held the iron rail with a...
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