The Golden Harbor
14 October 1912 Clara, my love, I write this by the light of a tallow stub that sputters against the damp, trying to hold the words steady while my hand trembles. I am still here, still on duty in the new wing, the one they call the Harbor, though God knows it holds no ships and no safe anchor. You have not slept in three days, and I can feel the tension in your breath from here, as if the...
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