The Golden Harbor
The dictaphone sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, a cold, heavy brick of plastic that felt less like a tool and more like a stone he was holding to keep from floating away. He pressed the record button, the red light blooming in the dimness of the lighthouse room, and waited for the sound that had been driving him to the edge of sanity for the last three days. Outside, the wind screamed against the...
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