The Golden Greenhouse
The iron bookend slid across the oak table, its weight pulling Arthur’s hand forward with a gravity that felt personal, almost accusatory. He was thirty-four, a junior archivist at the Ministry of Antiquities, and his fingers were stained with the rust of old copper, a stain that would not wash out no matter how long he scrubbed. He wanted his tenure. He wanted the permanent stamp on his file...
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