The Pale Bonsai
The first thing Gerald Vane noticed, upon waking from the anesthesia of his own life, was that his left hand had stopped being a hand and had become a door. It was a pale, wooden thing, hinged at the wrist, with a brass knob that felt cold and indifferent against his skin. He looked at it with the detached curiosity of a man inspecting a foreign object found in his pocket, a key that opened no...
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