The Pale Bonsai

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2026-08-20 19:33:23 -

The Pale Bonsai

The coffee tastes like rust and old pennies. You drink it anyway. The cup is chipped, a small fracture running up the side, a jagged mouth that leaks warmth onto your palms. You are in the cell. It is not a room. It is a box. Concrete on three sides, steel on the fourth. The light is a single, buzzing tube that hums a low, sick note against your teeth. You are a man. You are a guard. Or so the...

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