The Golden Master
The shears clicked, a dry, decisive sound in the empty room. Elias cut a branch from the olive tree, the wood snapping clean against the ceramic rim of the pot. He was forty-two, and the light in his home office was the flat, gray kind that comes through blinds at four in the afternoon, doing nothing to warm the air. He wanted his early retirement. It was the only thing left that felt like his...
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