The Golden Greenhouse
The glass was thick as old amber, and the air inside the greenhouse tasted of copper and rot. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old with hands that shook from the cold, slammed his palm against the ledger resting on the rotting oak table. He wanted the last vial. He needed the Golden Syrup to stop the fire in his joints, the pain that had been eating him alive for three years since Arthur’s death....
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