The Pale Bonsai
The thing on your back is growing, and it smells like wet wool and old copper. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, an archivist who has spent the last two decades cataloging the rot of this Victorian manor, a task that became necessary when your father’s gambling debts swallowed the family fortune whole. The estate is a carcass, dripping with peeling wallpaper and the scent of damp plaster, and...
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