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The heavy oak door groaned open, releasing a

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wave of warmth and moisture that instantly

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fogged Clara's glasses.

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Taking them off to wipe them on her

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sleeve, she stepped deeper into the Victorian -style

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glass conservatory, leaving the chill of the autumn

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afternoon far behind.

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Around her, the world transformed into a vibrant

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emerald sanctuary.

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Towering tropical ferns unfurled their delicate fronds toward

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the high vaulted glass ceiling,

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while broad -leafed palms rustled softly in the

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gentle, humid breeze of the climate control

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vents.

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Overhead, the afternoon sun filtered through decades of

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dust and rain -streaked panes, casting

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a shifting mosaic of dappled light across the

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mossy stone pathway.

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Clara was here in search of the legendary

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queen of the night orchid, rumored to be

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on

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the verge of its rare, ephemeral bloom.

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She wandered past hanging baskets overflowing with cascading

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vines and terracotta pots cradling

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strange, alien -looking bulbs.

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The air was thick and sweet, heavy with

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the rich, earthy scent of damp soil and

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the intoxicating

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perfume of a thousand exotic flowers.

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Stopping before a wrought iron staging table, she

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caught her breath.

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There, resting in a shaft of golden sunlight,

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was a masterpiece of nature.

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It was an orchid unlike any she had

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ever seen.

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Its detailed petals were a gradient of deep,

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velvety violet and electric turquoise, edged

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with lace -like fringes that seemed to shimmer

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like spun glass.

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Tiny droplets of condensation clung to its core

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like morning dew, magnifying the intricate

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geometry of its center.

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As she leaned in closer, mesmerized by the

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sheer, absurd perfection of the blossom, a

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low, resonant chime echoed through the botanical garden.

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The greenhouse lights flickered, signaling closing time.

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Reluctantly, Clara tore her gaze away from the

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breathtaking flower, whispering a silent

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promise to return before the dawn stole its

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fleeting beauty away.