The Pale Bonsai
The dream was always the same: a pale, skeletal bonsai tree, its roots white as bone, splitting the sternum of Elias Thorne from the inside out, the wood pressing against the ribs until the skin became translucent, revealing the green, wet machinery of his own heart beneath. He woke in the sterile, blue-lit hum of the archive on the forty-second floor, the air thick with the scent of ozone and...
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