The Pale Verdict
The dream had no color. It was all gray, like the inside of a closed eyelid. Margaret stood in the kitchen. The light was wrong. It came from the ceiling but fell upward. She looked at her hands. They were not her hands. They were bark. She woke. The house was quiet. Too quiet. She sat up. The sheets were cool. Outside, the rain tapped against the glass. A steady, dull rhythm. It sounded like...
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