The Golden Greenhouse
The ledger sat on the desk like a closed eye. It was a heavy thing, bound in leather that had worn smooth at the corners, smelling faintly of iron and old paper. I turned the page. The ink was still wet. It had been wet for three days. I had not written it. I had only looked at it. That was the first thing the others could not understand. They thought I was hiding money. They thought I was...
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