The Pale Bonsai

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 03:21:48 -

The Pale Bonsai

The rain did not fall; it hovered, a suspended curtain of gray mist that smelled of wet iron and old bones. I stood on the ridge, my boots sinking into the mud that had been turned to soup by days of relentless weeping from the sky. My name is Elias, though I have forgotten how to say it without tasting the ash that still coats my teeth. I am an old man now, or perhaps I have always been, the...

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