The Golden Harbor
The tremor started in Elias Thorne’s right hand, a fine, electrical buzz that he could feel in the marrow of his fingers before he saw it in the air. He was forty years old, a constable of the harbor district for two decades, and his body was beginning to betray the institution that had claimed it. The order from the Chief Inspector was simple: clear the lighthouse. The town spoke of a ghost, a...
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