The Golden Harbor
The glass vial is heavy in your palm, heavier than the label suggests, a dense, viscous weight that pulls at the tendons of your wrist as you step off the rusted freight elevator into the sterile, humming air of St. Jude’s Sanatorium. You are Elias Thorne, an apothecary of forty-two years, and you have driven six hours through the sleet to deliver this shipment of rare botanicals, driven by a...
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