The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the atrium smelled of wet limestone and old paper. You stood before the glass, watching the rain streak down the panes in slow, vertical tears. Your hands were trembling. Not from cold. The heat was oppressive, a humid weight that pressed against your skin. You were the Archivist. Your duty was cataloging. Your mind was a filing cabinet, precise and dry. But today, the cabinet was...
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