The Golden Greenhouse
The train had been moving for six hours, a long metallic hiss that seemed to vibrate in the teeth of Elias Thorne as he sat in the upper berth of a sleeper car that smelled faintly of damp wool and stale coffee, while the lights of the city below blurred into streaks of neon and sodium, a river of light that never quite ended and never quite began, and he held in his lap a ceramic pot that was...
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