The Pale Mist
The chrysanthemums were dying on the table, their petals curling inward like clenched fists, a silent testament to the entropy that creeps into every well-kept house. I stood in the center of the dining room, my hands stained with the indigo residue of the indigo vat, a color that had become so intrinsic to my skin that I could no longer distinguish where the fabric ended and the flesh began....
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