The Pale Bonsai
The air in the conservatory did not move, yet the dust motes suspended in the shafts of amber light seemed to be engaged in a slow, chaotic waltz, a celestial ballet performed for an audience of one. I stood before the glass, my breath fogging the pane, watching the steam curl and dissipate into the stillness of the Victorian interior, a ghost of my own existence made visible only to vanish....
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