The Golden Greenhouse
The iron gate of the conservatory shudders under the weight of the wind, a groaning metal scream that sounds less like nature and more like the grinding of gears in a dying engine. You stand before it, your hands still stained with the black soot of the locomotive sheds, your knuckles split and raw from the day’s labor. Inside, the glass panes fog with the breath of the plants, a dense, humid...
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