The Golden Greenhouse
The rain against the windows of the Municipal Archive was a dull, rhythmic drumming, a sound that had worn the edges of Silas Vance’s patience thin as old paper. He sat alone in the basement reading room, the air thick with the smell of decaying lignin and the faint, metallic tang of rusting file cabinets. It was 1924, a year that felt less like a point in time and more like a heavy fog...
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