The Golden Harbor
Elara, get down from there before you break the floorboards. The voice was my father’s, or rather, the memory of it, sharp and commanding, echoing off the sloped beams of the attic where I had barricaded myself with the last of the house’s iron bedsteads and a stack of damp wool blankets. I am thirty-two years old, and I have spent the last six hours in this darkness, clutching a sealed...
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