## The Static Bloom The chipped Formica of the diner booth stuck to Leo Maxwell’s elbows. Rain smeared the neon sign outside, turning “Rosie’s” into a blurry pink wound against the gray Tuesday night. He hadn’t tasted coffee in… well,…
The chrome of Neo-Kyoto slicked with perpetual drizzle. Rain wasn’t water anymore—nano-bots, designed to cleanse the air, but leaving a greasy film on everything. I navigated the market, dodging projections shimmering from every storefront. Old Christmases, graduations, first kisses—memories for…