The Pale Bonsai
The porcelain bowl shatters not with a crash, but with a whisper, a soft, wet exhalation of dust and cold air that seems to suck the heat straight out of the sterile, fluorescent-lit room of the Department of Historical Preservation, Section Four. You stand there, your hands still raised in the air as if you have just thrown the object, though you know, with a clarity that borders on the...
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