The Golden Harbor
The fog rolled in off the harbor, thick and grey, swallowing the masts of the fishing boats until only the dull thud of ropes against wood remained. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood on the dock, his knuckles white around the brass service medal in his left hand. He was thirty-four years old, a man whose face had been worn smooth by wind and duty, and he felt the weight of the metal against his palm...
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