The Golden Harbor
The hum began in Elias Thorne’s molars before it reached his ears, a low, grinding vibration that felt less like sound and more like the tectonic shift of the earth beneath the cobblestones of the Golden Harbor. He was forty-five years old, a man whose spine had curved slightly from decades of bending over ledgers in the damp chill of the port office, and his only desire in the world was to...
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