The Pale Bonsai

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2026-08-19 22:36:50 -

The Pale Bonsai

The bus was late. It was always late. Margaret sat in the back of the sterile waiting room, her hands folded in her lap. She held a small, white ceramic pot. Inside it sat a bonsai tree. It was not a real tree. It was made of sugar. The room smelled of lemon cleaner and old sweat. A fluorescent light buzzed above her head. It was a low, persistent hum. It sounded like a dying insect. Margaret...

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