The Pale Bonsai
The ledger on Elias Thorne’s desk was open to the page detailing the cost of grafting wax, the price of the paraffin lamp oil, and the accumulated debt owed to the apothecary for the tinctures that kept his father’s cough at bay. He counted the hours he had spent staring at the bonsai, the ancient, twisted thing that sat on the windowsill of the study, its leaves a pale, translucent green that...
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