The Pale Bonsai
Thorne. The name was called out by the wind, a dry rattle against the windowpane that sounded too much like a summons. You sat in the blue half-light of the study, the lamp unlit, watching the dust motes swirl in the air above the desk where the Pale Bonsai sat. It was a small, twisted thing, bought from a market stall in Kyoto three weeks ago, its bark the color of old bone, its leaves a...
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