The Pale Bonsai
Thorne. The name was called out by the janitor, a sharp bark that echoed off the linoleum of the hallway, shattering the illusion that I was a scholar and not merely a man in a tweed jacket with ink-stained cuffs who had forgotten to sign out of the library system. I turned, my knees protesting the sudden shift in weight, and saw him holding a mop that looked like it hadn’t been wrung in a...
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