The Pale Mist
The glass tube in your hand is warm, too warm, and the liquid inside is not the pale, milky white it should be but a sickly, bruised violet that pulses with a rhythm you recognize from your own failing chest. You set it down on the linoleum floor of the laboratory, the surface gritty with old chalk dust and the fine, metallic residue of failed distillations, and you watch the color drain away...
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