The Golden Greenhouse
The tape measure snapped against the rim of the clay pot with a sharp, metallic twang that echoed off the wet glass panes. Elias Thorne did not flinch; he simply adjusted his grip on the brass handle, his knuckles white and swollen from the cold seeping through the concrete floor. He was forty years old, and he had spent the last twenty-two of them bending over soil in this municipal...
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