Colour Room — The

Years later, when Clarice stood on the roof of the factory, she looked out at the bottle kilns. They were still grey, and the smoke still hung heavy in the air. But as she looked down at her own hands, stained permanently with the dyes of a thousand sunsets, she smiled.

"You’re daydreaming again, Cliff," hissed her supervisor, a man whose soul seemed to have been fired in an oven of pure cynicism. "The world wants traditional roses and gold filigree. Neat. Tidy. Quiet." The Colour Room

Clarice didn't flinch. "I call it 'Bizarre,' sir. Because that’s what they’ll say when they see it. But they won’t be able to look away." Years later, when Clarice stood on the roof