The Golden Greenhouse
The glass was warm beneath her palms—warm as if it held its own small sun—and through the condensation-streaked panes the conservatory garden unfurled in a golden haze that Elspeth had known for forty years and still could not name with any word that felt honest. Outside, Oxford was all grey stone and greyer sky, the kind of city that wore its history like a damp coat you could never quite...
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