The Pale Bonsai
The rain had been falling on the corrugated roof of the storage unit for three days, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that sounded less like water and more like the static of a television tuned to a dead channel, a white noise that filled the small, airless space where Elias Vane sat cross-legged on a tarp, his back pressed against the cold metal wall, watching the water drip from the rusted...
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