The Golden Harbor
The Blackwood Institute smelled of damp wool, oxidized copper, and the slow, sweet decay of paper, a scent that Elias Thorne had inhaled for twenty years until it had become indistinguishable from the air he required to live. It was a Thursday in late November, the kind of grey, lightless afternoon that pressed against the high, arched windows of the main reading room, and Elias sat at his...
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