The grit tasted of regret. Ada spat, the fine red dust coating her tongue like a second skin. Eldan hadn’t just *fallen* to the storms; it had been *eaten*. One moment, carved sandstone buildings gleamed, the next, swallowed whole by…
The rain tasted like static. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though nobody knew if he *was* an old man anymore, or just a construct wearing the skin of one. His shop, a cubbyhole wedged between a noodle stall and…
The chipped Formica felt cool under Leo’s palms. He kneaded, pushed, folded—each motion a futile attempt to work out the knot in his chest. Rye dough. It smelled like…everything. Like his grandmother’s kitchen, like Sundays, like a life he couldn’t…
The chipped ceramic mug warmed Leo’s hands, the steam fogging his glasses. He didn’t bother wiping them. Budapest blurred nicely anyway. Across the cramped table, a woman traced the rim of her own cup, her knuckles white. Her gaze held…
The chipped ceramic of the mug warmed Leo’s hands, did little for the cold that settled deep in his bones. Rain lashed the window of the diner, mirroring the gray wash over everything he drew. He sketched, a gaunt figure…