The Pale Bonsai
The shears clicked, a dry, metallic snap that cut the silence of the study. Elias Thorne trimmed a single, pale leaf from the bonsai’s left branch, his hand steady despite the tremor in his left knee. He was forty-five, a retired constable with a back that ached when the barometric pressure dropped, and he had been tending this *Juniperus chinensis* for three years since Silas’s funeral. The...
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