The Golden Harbor
The count began with the stitches, forty-two in the left sleeve of your flannel shirt, each one pulled tight by hands that no longer belonged to you, and the second count was the hours, six since the silence fell over the house, six since the glow on your palms ceased to fade into the skin but instead began to pulse with the rhythm of a second, hidden heartbeat. You were Dr. Elias Thorne,...
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