The Pale Dance

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2026-08-22 15:22:52 -

The Pale Dance

The orchid is bleeding again. I wake to the smell of wet ink and decay, the pale petals of the *Phalaenopsis* on my desk weeping a dark, viscous fluid that soaks into the manila folders of the Blackwood Institute’s collection. It is a dream, or a premonition, or perhaps just the hallucination of a man who has not slept properly in three weeks, but the ink is real when I reach for it, staining...

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