The Golden Harbor
The train to Blackwood Halt smelled of wet wool and diesel. Elias Thorne stepped off onto the platform, his single suitcase feeling heavier than it had in London. He was forty-two, an archivist by trade, though currently unemployed by choice and necessity. His name had been dragged through the mud of the local papers three months prior, accused of embezzling from his late father’s estate. The...
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