The Pale Bonsai
"You have forgotten the ritual," the voice said from the shadows of the attic. It was not a voice I recognized, yet it carried the weight of a century. I stood before the glass case. Inside, the bonsai sat in its clay pot. The tree was pale, almost white, its leaves translucent like thin paper. It was dying. Or rather, it had already died, and the rot was simply a matter of time. My brother,...
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