The Golden Harbor
Chapter One The jute mills of the town churned their daily slurry of fiber and rot, a thick, brown paste that smelled of wet wool and old blood, churning the air into a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed against the windows of the requisitioned orphanage where Nirmala Banerjee stood. She was twelve, small for her age, and her hands were pressed flat against the cold, damp stone of the...
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