The Pale Bonsai

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2026-08-21 15:46:12 -

The Pale Bonsai

The ink was black. It was wet. It smelled of iron and old rain. Silas sat in the dark of the cell. The chair was hard. The air was cold. He held the pen. His hand did not shake. It had not shaken in years. He looked at the paper. It was blank. White. Endless. A void waiting to be filled. He was a prisoner of words. Or so they said. The walls were stone. Gray. Cold. The door was iron. Thick....

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