The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the Department of Temporal Integrity tasted of ozone and old paper. It was a heavy, industrial scent, the kind that settled in the lungs of every clerk who had worked the night shift for more than a decade. I adjusted my spectacles, the lenses fogging slightly in the chill of the sub-basement, and stared at the file on my desk. It was a standard anomaly report, Form 7-C, filed by a...
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