The Golden Greenhouse
Act I Declan Yeats hammered the bronze door-pivot into the mud, the metal shrieking against the wet earth. The heat was a physical weight, pressing the fog down into the terraced tea hills until the air tasted of copper and old sweat. He wiped his brow with a rag stained by rust, the fabric tearing on the rough wood of the well-shaft frame. His hands were raw, the skin split from the constant...
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