The Pale Bonsai
The window of your office shatters not with a bang, but with a sigh, a sudden exhalation of glass that turns the afternoon light into a million jagged diamonds raining onto the Persian rug. You do not flinch. You do not scream. You simply continue to adjust the pruning shears in your hand, the metal cold and biting against your palm, as if the destruction of the glass were merely a draft you...
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