The Pale Bonsai
The ceramic pot in Elias Thorne’s hands was cold, heavier than it looked, filled with soil that had turned to gray ash. He held it against the chest of the woman who had been his wife for twenty-two years, the rough clay pressing against the smooth, waxen skin of Mara’s collarbone. The room was bright with a harsh, clinical light that came from a fluorescent tube on the ceiling, a light that...
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