The Golden Greenhouse
The document on the table was a simple thing, a sheet of heavy cream paper with a single line of text typed in a font so small it looked like a row of ants marching toward a cliff. You read it twice, then a third time, your finger tracing the ink as if the tactile sensation might alter the meaning. It was a notice of forfeiture, issued by the Office of the Magistrate, stating that the emerald...
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