The Pale Bonsai
The pot was white. It was the only white thing in the room. "Is it alive?" Thomas asked. The woman in the gray hood did not look up. Her fingers moved with a rhythmic, dry scratching sound against the soil. "Ask it," she said. Thomas leaned closer. The plant was small. A twist of dark wood. No leaves. Just a knot of bark that looked like a closed eye. "It’s dead," Thomas said. "Everything is...
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