The Golden Greenhouse
The ink was blue. It had always been blue. Not the black of authority, nor the red of warning. Just a steady, cold blue. Elias found the mark on the ledger. It was a small smudge, no larger than a grain of sand. He rubbed it with his thumb. It did not come off. He leaned closer. The paper smelled of dust and old pine. The room was silent. Outside, the wind howled. It was a low, guttural sound....
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