The Golden Greenhouse
You wake to the sound of your own breathing, a wet, rhythmic rasp that fills the high, vaulted ceiling of the workshop, a sound that has always felt too large for the body that produces it, as if your lungs were trying to inflate a space that no longer exists. The air is thick with the scent of resin and old iron, a heavy, metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and settles into the...
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