The Pale Bonsai
The ink on the ledger is dry, but the smell of iron still clings to the air in the watch office, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to wash away. You sit alone, the lantern burning low, its flame guttering in the draft that seeps through the ancient stone walls of the tower. Outside, the village of Oakhaven sleeps under a blanket of unnatural silence, the trees...
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