## The Clockwork Prophet The rain tasted of coal dust and regret. August in Warsaw clung thick, a humid blanket smothering the city’s limestone facades. I wiped my brow with a grimy glove, the oily residue smearing across skin already…
## The Static Between The salt spray tasted like regret on Old Man Hemlock’s lips. He adjusted the focusing lens of the fresnel, the beam slicing through the November gloom like a hot knife. Three decades at North Sentinel Rock…
## The Static Between Stars The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cold under Leo Klein’s elbows. July 19th, 1985. Cologne tasted like weak coffee and regret. Rain hammered against the plate glass window, blurring Alfredstrasse into streaks of…
## The Sunstone Weaver The rain tasted like static. Kai spat, the grit clinging to his tongue. Three cycles since he’d walked on solid earth that *didn’t* shimmer with temporal bleed. Now, the canopy dripped fractured memories – a flash…