The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the infirmary tasted of iodine and old paper. You sat on the edge of the cot, your knees drawn up to your chest, the heavy wool blanket slipping from your shoulders. Across the room, Elias stood at the basin, scrubbing his hands with a vigor that seemed to erode the skin rather than clean it. He did not look at you. He was focused on the water, on the way it swirled and cleared, on...
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