The Golden Harbor
You are alone in the glasshouse. The air is thick, humid, and smells of rotting peat and crushed ferns. You are the Head of Botany at Ashworth College. You have spent thirty years cataloging the silent, slow violence of nature. You know the mechanics of decay. You know the architecture of a spore. But you do not know this. The window is fogged. Outside, the rain hammers against the slate roof...
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