The Golden Greenhouse
The collapse of the eastern wing did not occur with the thunderous violence we had been briefed to expect, but rather with a long, shuddering exhale, a structural groan that vibrated through the soles of my boots and settled, heavy and cold, in the marrow of my bones. We stood in the corridor of the old textile mill, a place that had once spun the cotton of empires and now housed only the dust...
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