The Golden Greenhouse
The house spoke. Not in words, but in the creak of floorboards that sounded like a sigh, in the draft that carried the scent of old paper and damp earth. It was a sound I had learned to distinguish from the settling of the foundations, a subtle vibration that hummed against my teeth. I am thirty-two years old, and I have spent the last three months living in the shadow of the estate, waiting...
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