The Pale Bonsai
The ink on the manuscript was not black, but a deep, bruised violet, the color of a plum that had fallen too early and begun to rot in the sun, and I watched it bleed into the parchment with the slow, deliberate malice of a tide that knows exactly where the shore is weakest. My hands, which had once been steady enough to carve the finest details into oak and stone, now trembled with a frequency...
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