The Pale Bonsai
The ceramic bowl sat on the table, its glaze a pale, sickly blue that matched the light filtering through the rain-streaked window. It was not a bowl of any great value, merely a utilitarian vessel for soup, yet it held the entire weight of my silence. I watched the steam rise from the empty space where the broth had been, curling into the cold air of the kitchen like a question I refused to...
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