The Golden Harbor
The walls of the Golden Harbor estate shifted two inches to the left by dawn, a fact Eugene Tillman noted in his ledger with a hand that trembled not from cold, but from the arrhythmia that had stolen three years of his life. He was fifty-four, a senior archivist whose pension was frozen mid-career, and he stood in the archive room, a sealed concrete box where the dust tasted of copper and old...
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