The Golden Greenhouse
The fire started at the base of the oak. It ate the leaves with a hunger that felt personal. I watched from the porch, holding my coffee, the steam rising in thin, grey ribbons against the dark. The university had sent a letter. It was polite. It was bureaucratic. It said my tenure was under review. The reason was vague. The tone was final. I am Elias Thorne. I teach Latin. I have taught Latin...
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