The Golden Harbor
The salt-wind had a voice in it, or so Thomas Harrow told himself as he climbed the steps of the old lighthouse keeper's house on the western edge of Harwick Bay. The wind didn't sing so much as it mourned—a low, ragged note that caught in the rusted railings and slipped through the cracks in the weathered timber. Thomas was fifty-three, though the sea air had aged him to sixty. His hair was...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews