The Pale Bonsai
The fluorescent tube above the workbench hums with a low, electric vibration that you can feel in your molars, a sound that has become so constant over the last six weeks that it no longer registers as noise but as a baseline frequency of your existence, a hum that seems to emanate from the very fibers of the damp, salt-rotted air of the studio in Harrowgate. You are Mara, thirty-four, a...
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