The Pale Bonsai
The trowel was cold, a heavy slab of cast iron that Elias Thorne held with a grip that had long since forgotten the distinction between tool and limb, the metal biting into the calluses of his palm as he scraped a flake of grey dust from the altar’s edge. He was forty-two, a junior archivist whose tenure depended on the completion of the St. Jude’s Chapel inventory before the winter thaw, a...
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