The Golden Greenhouse
The banquet hall of the Municipal Records Center is a lie, a sterile white box where the air tastes of recycled ozone and fear. You are Elias, fifty-two, and you sit at the head of the long table, your hands folded tightly in your lap to hide the tremor that has become your second heartbeat. The room is filled with the mid-level bureaucrats, the digital migration specialists, and the quiet,...
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