The Golden Greenhouse
The jar sits on the table. It is clear glass, thick-walled, holding a single stalk of green that does not wither. You look at it. You have looked at it every morning for ten years. The light in the room is grey, the light of a town that never quite decides whether it is day or night. Outside, the rain taps against the windowpane with a rhythmic, hollow sound. You are a prisoner, though there...
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