The Pale Bonsai
The rain does not fall here so much as it is imposed, a heavy, grey curtain of industrial soot that settles into the pores of your skin and tastes of copper and old blood. You are walking through the valley of the Ironworks, a place that exists in the crease between the map and the memory, where the air is thick enough to chew and the sky is a bruised purple that has forgotten how to lighten....
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