The Pale Bonsai
You are making a mistake, Dr. Thorne. The ink is not water. It is memory. And memory does not wash out. The Curator’s voice was dry, like the sound of paper rubbing against paper in the empty stacks. He stood by the door, his eyes white and blind, fixed on a point somewhere above my head. I did not look at him. I looked at the ledger. The Magistrate Vane’s final account lay open on the oak...
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