The Pale Bonsai
You sit in the back room of your shop, the air thick with the scent of sawdust and the stale, metallic tang of old copper, and you are trying to remember what it feels like to be a hand that is not shaking. The tremor is subtle, a fine vibration in the tips of your fingers that you have spent thirty years learning to hide, but today it is louder, a buzzing hum that travels up your wrists and...
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