The Golden Greenhouse
The rain fell in sheets of iron. Maren held the stalk. It was thick. It was wet. It was alive. She stood in the mud. The mud sucked at her boots. She did not move. She could not move. Her fingers were locked around the green stem. The stem pulsed. It beat against her palm. A slow, wet throb. Behind her, the carriage waited. The driver leaned forward. He spat into the ditch. "It is done,...
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