## The Static Bloom The dust tasted like forgotten birthdays. Old metal, a sweetness clinging to the grit that coated Lena’s tongue. She hadn’t felt rain in seven cycles, not real rain anyway. Just condensation clinging to the geodesic domes…
## The Weave Rain lashed the chromasteel of Elias’s workshop, a relentless drumming against the geodesic dome. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and something faintly floral—the scent of cultivated bioluminescence. He tightened a micro-connector on a neural lace, his…
## The Static Bloom The air tasted like wet metal and regret. Rain, perpetually silver under the bruised sky of Kyros XIV, slicked the polished obsidian walkways. I adjusted the thermal regulator on my worn jacket, the gesture automatic after…