The Pale Fracture
The dream is always the same: a single white orchid, its petals broad and translucent as cellophane, resting on a table of black slate, and then the fracture, a sound like a bone snapping inside a dry tree, as the flower splits down the center and collapses into a pile of brittle, useless shards. You wake with the taste of chalk on your tongue and your hands trembling so violently that you...
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