The Golden Harbor
The brass buttons on your greatcoat are cold, a sharp, metallic bite against your fingertips as you run them down the front placket, checking for loose threads, for tears, for the subtle decay of fabric that has seen too many winters. You are standing in the corridor of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Insane and the Indigent, a place that smells of boiled cabbage, damp wool, and the stale, sweet...
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