The Pale Bonsai
The tower stands. It has always stood. You remember the way it leaned, slightly, toward the river, as if listening to the water’s complaints. Now it is straight. Too straight. The mortar is new. The stones are bright, scrubbed clean of the century’s soot. You look at the structure and feel a nausea that is not in the stomach but in the marrow. It is a violation. The building has been corrected,...
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