The Golden Greenhouse
The bell tolls. It is a heavy, bronze sound that vibrates in the marrow of your bones. You stand before the gate. It is iron, wrought in the shape of thorns. Behind it, the Institution rises, a sprawling edifice of grey stone and higher windows, built not for comfort, but for containment. You are not entering as a visitor. You are entering as a penitent. The air is cold. It tastes of wet slate...
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