The Pale Bonsai
The dream comes again, as it does every Tuesday, a visceral intrusion of wood and bone into the sterile air of your office. You wake with the phantom ache of roots splitting your ribs, the pale, twisted limbs of a bonsai tree erupting from your chest cavity, drinking the life from your lungs. You are Elara, thirty-two, a junior archivist in the Ministry of Antiquities, and this morning the...
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