The Golden Greenhouse

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2026-08-20 08:12:22 -

The fog tasted of iron and burnt sugar. I stood on the platform, my coat tight across the shoulders. The wool had turned to glass. It cut the air. I could not breathe. My name was Arthur. Or perhaps it was something else. It did not matter. The train was late. The clock above me spun backward. Ticks like falling teeth. I looked down at my hands. They were not hands. They were gloves. Thick,...

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