The Golden Harbor
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Municipal Library smelled of damp wool and old varnish, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad taste. It was the annual Archive Gala, a grotesque masquerade where the city’s elite drank sherry and pretended that the rotting foundations of their history were merely a matter of budgetary concern. I stood in the corner, holding a glass of...
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