The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the greenhouse tasted of copper and wet stone, a metallic tang that coated the back of your throat before you even drew a full breath. You stood in the center of the glass house, the one that had grown out of the garden like a tumor, like a fever dream made of panes and iron, and you held the brass thermos in your hands. It was warm. It had been warm since you woke up, though you...
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