The Golden Harbor
The ink in my pen was black, but the light filtering through the dust-choked windows of Blackwood Manor was a sickly, pulsating amber that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of my own failing heart. I had come to this decaying estate in the autumn of 1893 with a single, desperate purpose: to transcribe the final inventory of the Blackwood holdings for the creditors, a task that would pay the...
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