The Pale Bonsai
The memo sat on the desk like a dead fly, its edges crisp and yellowed, demanding the return of the "confiscated asset" to its rightful owner. I rubbed my eyes, the grit of the archive dust settling into the creases of my face, and looked at the bonsai in the corner. It was pale, almost translucent, its leaves a shade of green so light it looked like paper. My mother’s medication was due in...
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