The Pale Bonsai
The smell of burnt sugar and old parchment hung in the air, a thick, cloying mist that seemed to have no source other than my own frantic, trembling mind, as I sat in the cramped, stone-vaulted office of the Municipal Bureau of Culinary Standards, watching the light from the single, high-set window slice through the dust motes like a pale, indifferent knife, cutting the room into shards of...
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