The Golden Greenhouse
You stand in the center of the conservatory. The air is thick. It smells of rot and sweet chemical preservatives. You are not afraid. You are precise. You check the humidity gauge. It reads eighty percent. Too high. The glass panes are fogged. You cannot see the garden outside. You only see your own reflection in the wet glass. A pale shape. A ghost in a suit. Your wife, Eleanor, is in the...
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