The Pale Bonsai
The ink is dry on the form, but the stain remains, a dark, organic bruise spreading across the white cotton of your shirt, and you are standing in the center of the living room, the room that used to be a sanctuary of silence and now feels like a pressurized vessel about to rupture, holding the weight of a secret that is not yours, a secret that was assigned to you by a system that does not...
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