The Pale Bonsai
The rain hammered against the leaded glass of the Municipal Archive’s upper gallery, a relentless, rhythmic assault that seemed to mimic the frantic beating of Arthur Penhaligon’s heart, while he stood with his back pressed against the cold brick of the corner, clutching a water-stained ledger in one hand and a rusted iron key in the other, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that fogged in...
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