The Pale Bonsai
The ledger in my hand was heavy with the weight of forty years, its leather cover worn smooth by the same friction that had worn the edges of my soul, and I held it against my chest as if it were a shield against the encroaching dark of the archive, where the air smelled of damp stone and the slow, sweet decay of paper. I am Thomas Bradshaw, Warden of the Subterranean Records, a title that...
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