The Pale Bonsai
Elias Thorne. The name was called out by the cold, a sharp, metallic sound that seemed to scrape against the inside of his ribs as he bent over the mahogany desk of the late Mayor Halloway. It was three in the morning, the hour when the city outside the high windows of the archive shed its pretenses and lay bare, a sprawling grid of wet asphalt and flickering sodium lights. Elias was forty-two,...
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