The Golden Greenhouse
You remember the scent of the workshop, a thick, cloying mixture of beeswax, old wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that permeated the air in the final weeks of your life as a craftsman, though you did not yet know that your life as a maker had already ended, having been severed cleanly from your identity by the quiet, persistent erosion of your most cherished creation. The coat was...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews