The Golden Greenhouse
The dust in the air was thick enough to chew on, tasting of rust and old pine, a flavor that had settled into the very marrow of my bones before I ever learned to distinguish hunger from thirst. I was ten years old, a creature of sharp angles and frantic energy, standing at the edge of the precipice where the village of Oakhaven ended and the wasteland began. Behind me, the iron gates of the...
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