The Golden Oath
Amsterdam in the off-season smells of wet stone and the ozone tang of the vacuum welders at the shipyard, a city that breathes through its lungs of canals while the convoy outside waits for the next cycle. I sat in the damp corner of the study, the air scrubber filter overdue for its third cycle, watching the dust motes swirl in the thinning light. The walls were whispering again, a low thrum...
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