The Pale Dance
The dream begins not with a face, but with a shatter. It is a sound that cuts through the heavy, velvet silence of the house, a sharp, crystalline fracture that echoes in the marrow of your bones. You are standing in the hallway, barefoot on the cold oak floor, and in your hands, you hold a mirror. But it is not glass. It is a piece of clothing, a silk shirt, woven from threads so fine they...
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