The Golden Greenhouse
The trowel bit into the loam, and Elias Thorne felt the resistance of the root system, a dense, golden knot that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic warmth against the steel. He was forty-five, a botanist by trade and a widower by circumstance, and he stood in the center of the glass-walled conservatory where the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the low, humming voices of the dead. The...
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