The Pale Bonsai
The form was a single sheet of cream-colored cardstock, its edges softened by years of handling, and Elias Thorne held it up to the grey light filtering through the high, grime-caked windows of the Bureau of Historical Corrections. He read the stamp in the corner, a jagged red mark that signified finality, and felt the paper’s surface slick and cold against his fingertips, a texture that seemed...
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