The chipped ceramic of the mug warmed Leo’s palms, a pathetic comfort. Below, the city breathed a bruised purple, a constant twilight born of stacked hab-blocks and light-dampening polymers. He hadn’t spoken to his sister, Clara, in seventy-two cycles. Seventy-two…
The chill bit, even through Gwen’s gloves. Frost orchids. Not the pale, brittle kind you found clinging to dying branches, but shimmering, almost *alive* with an inner light. Each petal pulsed with a lavender glow, mirroring the bruised twilight sky.…
The chipped Formica of the counter felt cool under Kenji’s palms. Dust motes danced in the single bare bulb hanging above. Outside, Tokyo exhaled a gritty sigh, a city still coughing up ash, even a year after the firestorms. He…