The Pale Bonsai

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2026-08-20 00:13:25 -

The Pale Bonsai

The broth was red. Not the dull, rusty red of old pennies, but a vivid, arterial crimson that pulsed against the white porcelain. It steamed. The steam curled like a question mark. Then it vanished. Silas stood in the kitchen. The floor was cold tile. He wore his tweed suit. It was damp. Not with rain. With sweat. Or fear. The air smelled of iron. And rot. And something sweet. Cloying. Like...

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