The Golden Harbor
The dream always begins with the smell of ozone and wet copper, a scent that clings to the back of the throat like a bad penny, and I wake up with the taste of brine on my lips, the golden harbor shimmering in the margins of my vision, a place that exists only in the restricted ledger I am tasked to catalog. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a junior archivist at the Municipal Library, and I need...
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