## The Sunken Chorus The chipped ceramic warmed Maya’s palm. Not with heat, exactly. More like a thrumming silence. She traced the spiral grooves etched into its surface – not by hand, she suspected, but *grown*. It felt…familiar. Like a…
## The Static Bloom Dust motes danced in the single beam of Elara’s lamp. Not sunlight, not anymore. Just filtered glow from a salvaged power cell, barely enough to chase the shadows clinging to the walls of her workshop. The…
## The Stone Speaker The chipped Formica of the kitchen counter felt cold under Leo Maxwell’s elbow. Another Tuesday, another grocery list scrawled in shaky handwriting: milk, eggs, bread, almond flour. His aunt Millie, bless her practical soul, left meticulous…