The Pale Bonsai

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2026-08-18 13:47:54 -

The Pale Bonsai

The iron gate groaned like a dying man clearing his throat as I pushed it open, the rust flaking off in red snow under my boots. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had become a fluid thing, thick and cold, inside the Whitmore estate. The house loomed ahead, a Victorian monstrosity of blackened brick and jagged glass, standing defiant against the gray sky. I adjusted my cuffs, the...

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