The Pale Bonsai
Thorne. The voice was not the one of the building manager, Mr. Halloway, who usually called for you in a dry, administrative bark that smelled of stale coffee and toner, but a sound like dry leaves skittering across a concrete floor, a sound that came from the pale, twisted branches of the bonsai in the center of the atrium. You stood in the doorway of the Archives, your hand still resting on...
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