Bloom
## Bloom The rain tasted like static. Elara licked her lips, the metallic tang a familiar greeting to Bloom. She adjusted the haptic gloves, the skin-tight fabric conforming to her fingers like a second layer. Neon tendrils pulsed beneath the…
dream weaving
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Dream Archive
The rain in Havenwood tasted like ash and regret. It clung to the slate roofs, slicked the cobblestones into a bruised purple sheen, and smelled like damp wool and forgotten promises. I’d been tracking this for weeks—not a crime, exactly,…