The Golden Greenhouse
"You are late." The voice comes from the shadows of the corridor. It is dry. It is patient. You straighten your tie. You check your watch. It is not late. You are early. But the clock on the wall does not tick. It hangs there, a white eye staring into the void, frozen at three o'clock. "Professor Halloway," you say. Your voice sounds thin in the high ceiling. "I was waiting." "Waiting is a form...
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