The Pale Bonsai
The shears are heavy in your hands, their steel heads slick with a substance that is not sap, but something darker, thicker, smelling of iron and old libraries. You stand before the Pale Bonsai, its trunk twisted into a knot of pale, bone-like wood that seems to pulse with a faint, internal light, and you know that if you do not prune it correctly, the ink will bleed into the soil and write the...
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