The Golden Harbor
The ink on the page is still wet, and I am watching it bleed into the grain of the vellum, a dark stain spreading like a bruise under skin. This is the only thing that matters now: the weight of the pen, the resistance of the parchment, the cold certainty that what I am writing will not be read, only filed. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a senior archivist at the Blackwood Institute,...
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