The Golden Greenhouse
The trowel bit into the mortar with a gritty scrape, and you mixed the gray slurry with a wrist that had begun to ache at the knuckles. It was late, the kind of hour where the streetlights in Oakhaven buzzed like trapped flies, and the municipal greenhouse stood a hundred yards away, a skeletal ribcage of rusted iron and cracked glass. You were fifty-two, a retired botanist whose expertise was...
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