The Faded Quadrant
The boat cut through the gray swell, its engine coughing smoke that hung low over the water. I stepped onto the slick stone of Point Vane, the wind tearing at my coat and pulling the damp from my lungs. It was November, and the cold here did not just sit on the skin; it burrowed. The lighthouse stood before me, a jagged tooth of concrete and rusted iron, leaning slightly against the sky as if...
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