The Golden Harbor
I counted the vials on the shelf, one by one, until the number forty-two blurred into a single, trembling smear of amber glass. My hands, which had once been steady enough to bind the spines of the asylum’s oldest ledgers with silk thread, now shook with a violence that made the ink jump and pool in the grain of the paper. It was a small, mechanical failure, a tremor that began in the wrist and...
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