The Pale Bonsai
In the dream, Mara is not a woman but a small, gnarled tree in a ceramic pot, her skin replaced by pale, smooth bark, her hair a tangle of silver lichen. You wake in the grey light of the Municipal Botanical Institute’s basement archive, your heart hammering against ribs that feel too thin, too hollow, as if the air inside your chest has been siphoned away. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two...
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