The Golden Greenhouse
The glass was not clean. It had not been clean in the three years I had lived in this house, and in the three years before that when I was merely a tenant of my own mind, drifting through the streets of a town that had swallowed me whole like a stone in a slow, grinding throat. The greenhouse stood at the back of the property, a skeletal ribcage of iron and fractured crystal, leaking the damp...
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