The Golden Greenhouse
The pain is in your left hand. It is a deep, structural ache, not of bone but of intent. You hold the glass vial. It is warm. It hums. You are in the center of the town square, and the rain is not falling; it is rising. You are an outsider. You know this. You know it by the way the shadows here do not obey the sun. You have been in this place, Oakhaven, for three weeks. Or three days. Time is a...
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