The Golden Greenhouse
The fluorescent lights in the Department of Behavioral Analysis hummed at a frequency that Martin Vane could feel in his molars. It was a low, persistent thrum, a vibration that seemed to settle into the marrow of his left arm, the limb that had begun to fade three weeks ago. The skin was not gone, but it had taken on the translucency of parchment, the veins beneath visible as dark, retreating...
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