The Pale Bonsai
The termination notice lay on the desk, crisp and white against the worn linoleum. Elias Thorne read the words, then read them again, the ink sharp and unforgiving. He did not sign it. He placed the pen down, the metal cold against his palm, and looked at the bonsai in the pot on the windowsill. It was pale, almost translucent, a ghost of a tree that had once been green. A leaf detached from...
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