The Golden Greenhouse
The glass of the Golden Greenhouse did not break with a sound; it shattered with a silence so profound it felt like a physical blow to the chest. It was November, 1912, and the air inside was thick with the scent of rotting sweetness, a cloying perfume that coated the back of my throat. I stood before the central rose, the one that had held the last breath of my wife, Clara, and watched as its...
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