The Golden Scar
The light in Siranush Jovanovic’s laboratory had not changed in three days, a flat, electric white that made the shadows of the ferns look like bruises on the glass. She remembered the morning the vine first appeared, a thin, golden thread piercing the skin of her left wrist, a small betrayal of her own biology that felt less like a plant and more like a verdict. The city of Oros, with its...
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