The Pale Bonsai

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2026-08-17 23:02:40 -

The Pale Bonsai

The ink on my fingers would not wash off. It had settled into the whorls of my skin, a dark tide that receded only to return, staining the cuticles, the nails, the faint creases of my palms. I sat in the study, a room that smelled of dust and old varnish, and watched the stain spread. It was a Tuesday. The light was grey, filtering through the heavy velvet curtains that had been drawn for...

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