The Golden Harbor
What do you do when the thing you were built to protect starts bleeding light? I stood on the pier at sixty-three of Widow’s Landing, the wet snow too heavy for the lines, and watched the water glow. It was not the green of algae or the blue of depth. It was a thick, golden phosphorescence that pulsed with the rhythm of a lung. I am Fatima Mohammed, the harbor warden, and I had spent three...
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