## The Echo Weaver The rain tasted like static. Maya swallowed, the metallic tang clinging to her tongue even as she wiped a greasy hand across her forehead. The corrugated iron of the observation post groaned under the relentless downpour,…
## The Echo Weaver The rain smelled of asphalt and regret, clinging to the neon glow reflecting off Scully’s worn leather jacket. He watched a young woman fumble with her umbrella outside The Crimson Note, her face pinched with frustration…
## The Ash Bloom Cartography Old Man Tiber hadn’t smelled real salt air in forty years. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light piercing his workshop’s gloom, illuminating layers of parchment stacked like forgotten strata. He traced a…