The Golden Greenhouse
The key weighs three ounces. You have counted it that many times. You have weighed it against the copper pennies in your pocket, against the rusted bolt in the fountain grate, against the silence of your own stomach. It is a brass thing, tarnished black in the grooves, cold enough to burn your fingers in the October damp. You are twelve years old, and you are standing in the center of the town...
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