The Golden Greenhouse
The greenhouse was not gold, but it had the memory of being so, a yellowing varnish trapped beneath layers of grime that made the glass look like old teeth, stained by decades of tea and neglect. Elara dreamed of it every night, a recurring fever in her mind’s eye, the structure standing alone in a field of ash that stretched to the horizon, its bones exposed to a sky that was neither day nor...
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