The Golden Greenhouse
Three stolen apples. That was the count for the night, and the Magistrate had already deducted the cost from your weekly wage before you even filed the report. You stood in the doorway of the watchhouse, the fog pressing against the glass like a damp, grey cloth, your hands still smelling of the cold iron of your handcuffs. You wanted to arrest the Green Man, that spectral thief who haunted the...
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