The Golden Harbor
The oil was thick in the lamp room, a black sludge that coated my fingers and smelled of rotting pine. I scraped it from the brass housing with a knife, the metal singing against the metal, while the wind outside screamed like a woman who has been left behind. It was the fourteenth of November, 1893, and I had just recorded the final entry in the ledger, a sum of forty pounds owed to me for the...
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