## The Echo Bloom The dust tasted like crushed stone and something sharper, metallic. Twelve-year-old Elara wiped a grime ribbon across her cheek with the back of a calloused hand, squinting at the pulsing sandstone wall before her. It throbbed…
## The Taste of Ash The flour dusted Elara’s hands, a comforting weight. She kneaded the dough with practiced ease, the rhythmic push and pull familiar as her own heartbeat. Outside, rain lashed against the bakery’s windows—a relentless drumming that…
## The Weaver’s Disappearance The wind tasted like ash and regret. Fifteen autumns I’d spent in the Gloom Consistence, a damp chill clinging to my bones like stubborn moss. My hands, rough and calloused, scooped spectral detritus from the circular…
## Skyborn The wind tasted like rain and rust, a familiar tang that settled on Elara’s tongue. She tightened the leather straps of her harness, watching the kumo vines writhe beneath her boots. These weren’t just plants; they were the…