The Golden Greenhouse
The glass is broken. You know this before you look. You feel it in the teeth, a jagged hum that vibrates up the jaw and into the wet dark of the brain. The greenhouse is not a place of growth. It is a tomb. A crystal coffin sealed against the cold, holding the breath of the dead. You stand in the center of the ruin. The floor is a mosaic of shards. Millions of them. They catch the gray light of...
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