The Pale Bonsai
Act I "You’re the one who dug the wells, aren’t you? The one who listens to the mud?" The voice belonged to the sexton, a man named Raza whose shotgun leaned against the doorframe like a bad habit he hadn’t yet kicked. I stood in the threshold of the communal threshing floor, the smell of dried grass and animal dung thick in the air, a scent that had been my constant companion for thirty-two...
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