The Golden Harbor
The ledger lay open on the oak table, its spine cracked and held together by a strip of dried hide, the pages yellowed to the color of old teeth. Thomas Bradshaw, twelve years old and trembling with a fever that had no name, stared at the list of names scrawled in a hand that grew shakier with each entry, each line a death, a disappearance, a silence that stretched back a century into the damp...
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