The Golden Harbor
The fog rolled off the sea, thick and gray, swallowing the spires of the Abbey of St. Jude before Elias Thorne could even step out of the carriage. He was fifty-two, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the tremor of a man who had spent thirty years in the quiet of archives, and he carried a single leather satchel containing the only thing that mattered: his pension application. The...
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