## The Bloom Weaver The chipped porcelain of the mug warmed Elias’s hands, but didn’t touch the chill clinging to his bones. Rain lashed against the window of the Archive, mimicking the rhythmic throb behind his eyes. He hadn’t slept…
## The Scent Collector The chipped Formica countertop smelled of disinfectant and regret. Dr. Aris Thorne traced the rim of a lukewarm coffee cup, eyes fixed on the data scrolling across three monitors. Numbers bled into waveforms, chaotic yet meticulously…
## The Stitch & Stone The scent of jasmine hung thick, almost cloying, in the humid Charleston air. Not the sweet perfume of gardens, but a sharper, bruised fragrance clinging to damp cotton. Eliza pressed a handkerchief – one of…