The Golden Harbor
My hands were black with grease when I woke, the oil still wet in the creases of my knuckles. I was in the boiler room, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and old rust, the steam hissing like a snake in the dark. I did not scream. I did not pound on the iron door. I sat on the cold floor, my back against the boiler, and I waited for the hum to stop. It did not. It vibrated in my teeth, a...
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