The Pale Bonsai
The rain has not stopped in three days, and the sound of it against the slate roof of the chapel is a relentless, drumming accusation that you have forgotten how to breathe. You are kneeling in the back pew, the wood worn smooth by centuries of penitents who sought forgiveness for sins far smaller than yours, and your knees ache with a dull, persistent throb that mirrors the hunger in your...
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