The Pale Bonsai
The silence in the apartment on Elm Street was not empty but rather a heavy, wet thing that pressed against the eardrums of Elias Thorne, a man who had spent forty years in the damp, indifferent rain of London and another twenty in the dry, mocking sun of this American suburb, carrying with him the specific, calcified weight of his own spine. He stood before the full-length mirror that had been...
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