The Golden Greenhouse
The cart wheels grind. You stop. The silence is heavy. It presses against your chest. You look at the crate. It is bound in iron. It is small. It is yours. "Is this it?" The man asks. He stands by the gate. He is old. His face is a map of wrinkles. He is the Keeper. He wears a robe of grey wool. He smells of damp earth and old paper. "Yes," you say. Your voice is rough. You clear your throat....
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