The Golden Greenhouse
The price is final, Mr. Thorne, and I do not have the authority to argue with the ledger. Elias Thorne stood in the cold draft of the cooperative office, the air smelling of damp wool and old paper, and watched the man behind the desk slide the rejected envelope back across the wood. The seeds inside, once the pride of his family’s heritage, now gleamed with a faint, unnatural sheen that caught...
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