## The Static Bloom The chipped Formica countertop smelled of old coffee and regret. Leo traced the ring stain with a calloused thumb, ignoring the persistent drizzle drumming against the corrugated metal roof. Outside, the sprawl of Neo-Austin blurred into…
## Bloom The rain tasted like rust, clinging to Elara’s tongue as she scrubbed at the grimy window of her Portland apartment. Another gray morning, another shift at The Green Thumb, a trendy plant shop where she pretended to care…
## The Weaver’s Bloom The rain tasted of iron and damp earth. It beaded on Elara’s cheek, tracing a path toward her chin as she navigated the elevated walkway. Crimson canopies arched above, thick and pulsing with geothermal light –…
## 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…
## The Echo Weaver The steam rose, thick and sweet, tasting of minerals and ancient stone. Elara brushed it away from her face, focusing on the low thrum vibrating through the cavern floor. It wasn’t a steady pulse; it shifted,…
## The Echo Bloom Rain lashed against the ferroconcrete of Sector 7, each drop a tiny hammer blow. Elara huddled deeper into her threadbare coat, the damp chill seeping through despite layers of worn synthetics. She watched a Nomari courier…
## The Bloom Echo The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cold under Leo Maxwell’s elbows. Rain lashed against the plate glass window, blurring the neon sign of ‘Rosie’s’ into a smeared crimson halo. Ten years. A decade spent…
## The Husk Cities The air tasted like wet iron and blooming rot. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though he couldn’t be more than sixty, the marsh leeched years. He adjusted the oilskin cowl tighter around his face as…
## The Weight of Wings Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the warped planks of Old Man Tiber’s cabin. Silas traced the lines on the worn map with a calloused thumb, the parchment smelling of…
## The Static Bloom Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light slicing through the gloom. Elouise traced a finger across the unfinished cheekbone of her latest sculpture, clay cool and yielding. It was supposed to be a boy,…