The Golden Harbor
The tweezers, held in Elias Thorne’s right hand which trembled with a palsy that had begun as a whisper of a shiver three winters ago and now roared like a dry leaf in a gale, hovered over the fractured rim of the gold pocket watch, the metal edge catching the dim, yellow light of the single gas lamp that hung from the cellar ceiling. He had been working on this specific hairline crack for...
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