The Golden Harbor
Astrid Dahl had thirty-two years of age and four years of indenture left at the Blackwood station, a fact that sat in her chest like a stone in a shoe. She was a junior archivist, a title that meant little to the men who signed the checks and everything to the women who dusted the shelves. The light in the archive room was thin and gray, filtering through the high, grime-caked windows of the...
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