The Golden Greenhouse
The rain hammers the slate roof of Harrowgate Manor, a relentless drumming that masks the creak of the floorboards under your boots. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, a historian of folklore who has spent the last decade convincing himself he is merely tired. The truth is simpler and colder: your hands shake. They tremble when you hold a pen, when you button your shirt, when you reach...
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