The Pale Bonsai
The room is a box of rust and silence. You sit on the edge of a steel workbench, your hands resting on your knees, fingers stained with the dark grease that has become part of your skin. The air is thick, heavy with the smell of ozone and old iron, a suffocating blanket that presses against your lungs. Outside, the factory floor hums with the rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat of the machines, a...
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