The Golden Harbor
The fog rolled in from the harbor like a living thing, thick and gray, swallowing the masts of the ships one by one. I stood on the wet stone of the pier, my uniform soaked through to the skin. The cold bit into my bones. It was the year 1892, or perhaps 1912. Time had become a slippery, wet thing here. It did not matter. I was Captain Elias Thorne. I was also the man in the mirror. And I was...
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