The Golden Greenhouse
The coat was green. Not the green of leaves, but the green of old teeth, of stagnant water, of things that have forgotten how to breathe. It hung in the hallway of the Whitmore house, a heavy, velvet shroud that absorbed the afternoon light. Elias stood before it. He ran his thumb over the lapel. The fabric was frayed. It had seen too many winters. Too many borders. The house was quiet. A...
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