The Pale Bonsai
The pale bonsai grows from your sternum, its roots drinking the red warmth of your heart. You wake gasping, the taste of copper in your mouth, the sheets soaked with sweat that smells of ozone and old dust. It is the fourth time this week. The tree is not a metaphor; it is a rule. It grows only when you lie. You have been lying to Major Vance for six months, claiming the southern sector is...
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