## The Static Bloom The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cold under Leo Maxwell’s elbows. Rain lashed against the window, blurring the neon glow of “Rosie’s” into smeared pink and blue. He hadn’t touched his coffee, the steam…
## The Bloom Weaver Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight slicing through the grimy window. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though he couldn’t have been more than sixty, lived in the husk of what used to be…
## The Beekeeper’s Compass The scent of beeswax and damp stone clung to Adelheid like a second skin. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the apothecary’s window, illuminating rows of labeled jars. Not remedies for coughs…