The Golden Greenhouse
The dream was always the same: a glass structure of impossible gold, humming with a heat that did not burn, where rows of withered ferns stretched toward a sky that was merely white. Elias woke with the taste of copper in his mouth and the distinct, chilling sensation that the air in his small, windowless office had thickened. He was forty-two years old, a Third-Class Archivist in the Ministry...
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