The Golden Greenhouse
The hand moved in a steady, rhythmic arc, filing the edges of a glass slide until the burrs disappeared, the sound a high, thin whine that cut through the heavy, damp smell of the basement archive. Elias Thorne did not look up, his eyes fixed on the fine grit catching in the fibers of his wool sleeve, a small, dark stain that had been there since the morning shift began. The Ministry of...
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