The Golden Greenhouse
The ink on my ledger is still wet when the first drop of blood hits the page. It is a small, rust-colored bead, falling from my left nostril onto the entry for the central pane of the Golden Greenhouse. I wipe it away with a thumb stained by decades of archival work, but the stain remains, a dark anchor in the white paper. I am Elias Thorne, senior archivist, and I have spent twenty years...
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