The Pale Bonsai
The frost did not merely settle on the windows of the Blackwood estate; it invaded, a creeping, crystalline silence that seemed to swallow the sound of the wind before it could reach the glass. Inside the study, a room that smelled of damp wool and old paper, Elias Thorne sat hunched over a desk that had seen better centuries, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, vertiginous...
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