The Golden Greenhouse
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in the heavy, cream-colored paper that smelled faintly of lavender and old dust, the scent of a life already over. Elias Thorne sat at the kitchen table, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and tea rings, and watched the envelope tremble in his hands as if it were a living thing, a small bird trapped in paper. He was a man of fifty-eight years,...
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