The Golden Greenhouse
The report is on the desk. It is thin. It is dry. You wrote it in ink that smells of iron. You are Mara. You are thirty-two. You want to keep your job. The house is dying. The rot in the beams is black. The plaster is peeling like sunburned skin. You have documented every crack. You have measured every sag. You have cataloged the decay. Halloway picks up the report. He does not open it. He...
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