The Golden Greenhouse
The ink on the seal is the only thing that remains dry in the Hall of Records, a stark black circle pressed against parchment that has long since surrendered to the damp, the rot, the inevitable creep of the green mold that eats history from the inside out. You hold the seal in your hand, the wax cool and brittle, and you feel the weight of it not as an object but as a sentence, a verdict, a...
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