The Pale Bonsai
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the gravel path into a slurry of mud and broken dreams, and Thomas Whitmore walked through it as if the water were not merely wet but heavy, as if every drop carried the weight of a sin he had committed so long ago that he had forgotten the shape of the hand that had struck him,...
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