The Golden Harbor
The fog at Blackwood Point did not roll in so much as it materialized, a thick, grey wool that suffocated the coastline and swallowed the world whole until the lighthouse stood alone, a black finger pointing accusingly at a sky that had no stars. I had driven for four hours to reach this desolate stretch of the Maine coast, my mind a chaotic archive of Arthur’s unfinished theories, driven by a...
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