The Pale Bonsai
You sit in the high-backed chair of the study, the leather worn smooth by centuries of silent observation, and you listen to the rain tap against the leaded glass of the window. It is a sound like a thousand small fingers testing the integrity of the seal, a persistent, rhythmic knocking that has not changed since the age of stone. You are the Archivist, or so the records claim, a keeper of the...
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