The Golden Greenhouse
The green light did not come from the furnace; it came from the inside of my own skull, a cold, viscous pulse that synchronized with the hammering of my heart. I am Elias Thorne, a glassblower of forty-two years, and I am currently trying to keep my workshop from being seized by the bank, a task that seems infinitely more difficult than blowing a perfect sphere of molten silica. The commission...
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