The Golden Greenhouse
The glass of the greenhouse is cracked, a spiderweb of fractures that catches the winter light and shatters it into a hundred cold, useless pieces. You stand in the center of the room, your hands trembling not from the cold, which is a biting, damp thing that seeps through the wool of your coat, but from the sheer weight of the silence pressing against the walls. Your mother, Margaret, lies in...
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