The Golden Harbor
I The rusted key bit into my palm as I turned the lock, the metal cold and jagged against the skin, a pain that felt more real than the damp air rising from the cellar floor. I am Shahid Ahmed, though the name on the indenture paper pinned to the magistrate’s desk is merely a thumbprint, a brown smudge that has outlived the ink, and I have spent three years in the shadow of that mark, waiting...
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