The Golden Harbor
The brass key felt heavy and warm in Elias Thorne’s palm, its surface worn smooth by decades of his own nervous habit, a tactile anchor in the drifting silence of the restricted stacks. He held it up to the pale, winter light filtering through the high, arched windows, turning it slowly so the metal caught the glare, a small, golden sun suspended in the cold air. The floorboards beneath his...
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