The Golden Greenhouse
The glass was green. Not the green of leaves, nor the green of moss, but a deep, arterial green. It pulsed. I saw it in the dream. I held it. It was warm. I woke. The room was cold. My name is Silas Thorne. I am an archivist. I work for the Ministry of Records. The building is old. The walls are thick. The light is dim. I sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking. I looked at them. They...
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