By noon, she noticed something stranger. When she touched a surface—a wooden desk, a glass window, a white page—the matte black didn't leave a smudge. It left a tiny, temporary shadow that lingered for a second before dissolving.
She felt powerful, quiet, and impossible to pin down. She realized then that she hadn't just bought a color; she’d bought a mood. She wasn't looking to shine anymore—she was looking to be the one thing in the room that couldn't be defined by the light.
"Are you sure?" the shopkeeper asked, her voice like dry leaves. "Matte black doesn't reflect anything. Not even your own mistakes."