The Pale Bonsai
The banquet hall in the basement of the Ministry of Cultural Continuity smelled of boiled cabbage and stale pipe tobacco, a thick, cloying miasma that seemed to settle into the pores of the skin rather than just hovering in the air, and at the center of the long mahogany table, beneath the flickering, sputtering halo of a single industrial lamp that buzzed with the frantic energy of a dying...
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