The Pale Bonsai
The rain against the stained glass of the library window sounded like a thousand tiny fingers tapping in demand for entry, a rhythmic, insistent percussion that matched the frantic beating of my own heart. I sat in the high-backed velvet chair, the leather worn smooth by centuries of anxious scholars, and stared at the object on the desk before me. It was not a bonsai, despite what the catalog...
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