The Golden Greenhouse
The rain does not fall here; it is exhaled. It comes out of the moss, out of the stone, out of the very skin of the earth, a cold, persistent mist that settles into your bones and stays. You stand at the edge of the village, the mud sucking at your boots with a sound like a slow, wet cough. You are leaving. That is the first thing to understand. You are leaving the place where your brother...
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