The Golden Harbor
Thorne. Thorne, you’re letting the fog in. The voice was muffled by the wind, a low rumble from the base of the cliff where the diesel trucks idled, their engines coughing black smoke into the grey air. Elias Thorne did not turn. He stood at the edge of the gallery, forty-two years old, his uniform stiff with salt and the damp that had settled into his bones over twenty years of service. He...
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