The Pale Bonsai
The ink on the envelope was still wet, a dark smear against the yellowed paper, and my fingers were shaking so badly that the train’s lurch made the pen jump across the page like a startled insect. I was writing to my father, Thomas Vane, at the estate in the north, demanding the return of the pale bonsai that had been our family’s possession for three generations, a tree that I believed, with...
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