The Golden Greenhouse
The train slowed as it entered the industrial district of Ashford. Steam hissed from the wheels, a white ghost against the soot-blackened tracks. I pressed my face to the glass. Outside, the city sprawled in a grid of iron and brick. The air smelled of coal dust and wet wool. My father’s hand rested on my shoulder. It was heavy. Warm. He did not speak. He never spoke on these journeys. He...
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