The Golden Greenhouse
March 12. The memo sat on my desk, the paper thin and yellowed, smelling of dust and old ink. It was a denial of service, stamped in red. I read it three times. My pension is the only thing keeping the roof over my head after twenty years of watching the border, but Major Halloway said I was chasing ghosts. He said the Greenhouse was a myth, a story the locals told to scare tourists. I am not a...
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