The Pale Bonsai
The silence in the manor was not an absence of sound, but a presence, a thick, suffocating velvet that pressed against the eardrums and settled into the marrow, a weight that Margaret Holloway had worn so long for so many generations that it had become indistinguishable from the very structure of her own bones. She stood before the mirror in the nursery, a room that had not known the light of a...
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