The Pale Meridian
The glass hem of the Meridian Gown sits in your palm, cold as a river stone, vibrating at a frequency that makes your teeth ache. You hold it up to the fluorescent light of the conservation lab, the silk shimmering with an iridescent, oily sheen that defies the natural pigments of the dye. The static hum is there, a low, electric growl that seems to emanate from the fabric itself, a sound you...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews