The Golden Greenhouse
The heavy iron key, cold and pitted with rust, sat in Silas Vane’s palm, its jagged teeth biting into the skin of his thumb as he stood before the glass door of the Greenhouse. It was the winter of 1904, and the annual gala roared behind him, a cacophony of clinking crystal and forced laughter that felt like static against the sudden, oppressive silence of the factory floor. Silas, forty years...
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