The Golden Greenhouse
The plaster dust tasted of chalk and old blood as Elias scraped the final layer from the eaves of the Whitmore house, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the specific, grinding weight of a bill that had been overdue for three weeks. He was forty years old, a man who had once drawn blueprints for cathedrals and now spent his days mending the roofs of men who could not afford to let...
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