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Speaker 1: You know those nights when the whole world feels like

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it's holding its breath. That's what it's like at Peat's

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twenty four hour laundry mat at two am, just me Dad,

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watching my clothes tumble and circles under this flickering fluorescent lights.

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I bought company tonight though, a little something called velvet Grave.

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The bud tender said it was perfect for solitude, for

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those moments when you want to sink into yourself and

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let the world fade away. I figured, what a better

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place than here? Right, The smoke curls up towards the ceiling,

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dancing with the steam from the dryers. At first, everything

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feels warm, peaceful. Even the rhythm thump of my clothes

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and the dryer number thirteen becomes a heartbeat, steady and sure.

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But then something shifts. The shadows in the corner start

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to breathe that comforting hum of the machines. It starts

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to sound like whispers, low and secretive, like people gossiping

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out of earshot and dryer thirteen, why didn't have to

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be thirteen? Keep stumping, But now it sounds less like

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a heartbeat and more like something trying to get out

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the smell of detergent changes too. Underneath the lemonee scent,

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I catch something faint, damp earth, like a graveyard after rain.

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I rubbed my eyes, cough, but the smell clings, warming

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its way down my throat. I can't shake the feeling

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that I'm not supposed to be here. Then maybe this

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isn't just any laundromat, and maybe, just maybe velvet Grave

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wasn't just a clever name. The fluorescent lights above flickered

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once twice, and I swear, And that split second of darkness,

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I saw someone sitting in the plastic chair across from me,

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same spot I left my laundry basket, their head tilted forward,

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hair covering their face, unmoving. But when the lights studied,

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the chair's empty, only the basket, only my socks. Hm.

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I laugh it off too much, read too late at night.

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The laugh dies quickly. When the whispers turn into words,

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they don't come from the walls. They come from the machines.

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Good good, good, every washer, every dryer. My name stretched thin,

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like it's being pulled through water. I gripped the edges

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of the folding table, trying to focus, trying not to bolt.

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My last load's almost done, just five more minutes, But

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then suddenly those five minutes feel like an eternity. I

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can't stop staring at Dryer thirteen, wondering what might be

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tumbling inside besides my clothes. The glasses fogged, but every

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now and then the shape presses against it, a handprint

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too big, too many fingers, sound of a dryer buzzer.

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I jump. The machines fall, silent, every single one, like

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they've been holding their breath too. The buzzer echoes in

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the empty room, sharp and final. I walk towards Dryer thirteen,

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legs shaking. My reflection stares back from the round glass door, warped, distorted.

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But there's something else behind me in the reflection, someone

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leaning over my shoulder. And when I spin around, silence,

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only the faint click of a machine starting again by itself, click,

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oral hum. One of the washers started up behind me.

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The lights overhead flickered, like they're straining against something. I

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don't remember putting anything in that machine. My clothes were

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all in Dryer thirteen. I stepped back, my throats dry,

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and the last hit of velvet grave is still clawing

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at the edges of my brain. I tell myself. I'm tripping,

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and that it's just the weed mixing with exhaustion. But

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then the washer door swings open, slow, deliberate. Wet clothes

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bill onto the tile floor. Except they're not mine. They're old, torn,

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gray with mildew. They smell like dirt and copper. I

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kick them away, heart pounding. That's when I hear it again,

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my name, not whispered, this time spoken from inside Dryer thirteen.

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The glass door fogs over and then clears, and I

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see movement, something shifting in the tumble, something that isn't fabric,

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the outline of a face pressing against the door from

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the inside, mouth opened in a silent screen. I stumble back,

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slam into the folding table. My phone buzzes in my pocket,

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startling me worse than the machines. Did I yank it out?

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The screens lit up, no number, just a message, notification

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circle not complete. Guess I freeze. My thumb shakes over

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the screen. Another buzz, another message, We need one more day.

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The laundrymat goes dark, only Dryer thirteen cloths, its round

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door spinning like an unblinking eye, casting pale light across

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the room. The face inside the drum is clearer now,

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it looks familiar, It looks like me. Low distorted sound

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of dryer rumbling. I should leave, I know I should leave,

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but my legs won't move. My reflection in the glass lifts.

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A hand presses it against the door. I feel the

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warmth against my palm. The dryer brosure screams again, sharp

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and final silence, and then the door latches, click, it

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swings open. Something wet hits the floor wet slap, drip, drip.

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Something heavy lands on the laundry mat floor, leaking a

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puddle that spreads towards my shoes. I stagger back, gagging

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at the smell rot and fabric soften or tangled together.

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It's not clothes, not exactly. It's me, a bundle of

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shirts and jeans twisted into the shape of a body,

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my body, pale skin, stitch together with sleeves, eyes sown

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shut with shoelaces. My mouth hangs opened, stuffed with lint.

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I reel, gripping the table to steady myself. My head

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spins the velvet graves, turning the scenes liquid dream like.

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But this, this isn't just a trip. The thing on

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the floor shifts twitches as if it's trying to breathe.

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Low hums begin again, machines powering up one by one.

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The washers around me fill with water on their own

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glass windows. Foggy faces pressed against the door, dozens of them, pale,

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blurried like a drowned people staring through a vel. They

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whisper in unison. Load cycles repeat. I vote for the exit,

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but the door won't blunch. Our reflection in the glass

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door stares back. Only it's not me anymore. It's the

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stun shut version. It's mouth tearing open to smile. M

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new phone message. I lift the screen with shaking hands.

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The message reads, thank you for your load. Next pickup

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down behind me, tryer thirteen. Click shut again. The drum

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begins to spin, and through the round window, I see

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fresh clothes tumbling inside, my hoodie, my jeans, my skin.

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I slam the emergency bar on the exit, praying for release.

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The door gives way, this time spelling me into the

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night air. I don't stop running until the laundrymat is

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a block behind me. It's neons flickering in the dark

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like a dying heartbeat. I collapsed on the curve, gasping,

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clutching my phone. The screen is black, now lifeless, my

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hands reek of detergent, engraved dirt. I tell myself I'm safe,

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that I left it behind. But then soft hum right

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beside my ear, like a dryer spinning. I turned my

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head slow, dreading what I'll see. My laundry basket sits

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next to me on the curb, full, freshly folded, and

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right on top of it, neatly pressed and still warm.

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A shirt I've never owned, one stitched from pale, unfamiliar

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skin at