The Pale Bonsai
14 March 1912 The sap is thick, Elias, and it smells of iron and old paper. You have been pruning the Imperial Bonsai for the better part of an hour, your shears clicking in the quiet of the botanical wing, but the tree is not behaving. It whispers. Not with leaves, but with a dry, rasping friction that sounds like names being dragged across a slate. You know the rules, or rather, you know the...
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