The Pale Bonsai
by Eleanor Fairchild
The pine had been dead for three weeks when she finally noticed.
Clara Whitmore stood over the trunk in the window box, her palms flat against the cold glass of the south-facing kitchen window, and stared at the thing she had watered every morning for eleven years. The needles were brown — not the dusty olive of neglect but the brittle, certain brown of...
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