The Faded Guest

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2026-08-22 16:41:47 -

The Faded Guest

The salt in the air tastes like copper, a metallic tang that coats the back of my throat and refuses to wash away, and I am writing this from the stern of the *Cormorant* as it drifts through the grey mist of the North Channel, the engine coughing its rhythmic, dying breath into the wet dark. I am a man of commerce, or I was, until the ledger balanced itself in blood and the accounts were...

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