Interdimensionology

The Mist of the Hollow, it came at dusk, rolling in like a tide of moonlight. The mist had no color you could name—somewhere between silver like the echo of a mirror, an invisible and not sensible mist for most of them. When it touched skin, it sank in. It sometimes did choke or sting.

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She told him her name was Lilith. She always picked mythological names —Lilith, Persephone, Kali—goddess names with teeth. Marcus didn’t care. He called her “Baby.” He called every woman that.He met her at an art gallery opening—one of those faceless rooftop events where men drink too much white wine, say nonsense like “emergent” and “liminal.”

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