The Chroma Archive
## The Chroma Archive Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the arched window. Elias Thorne, a man built like weathered oak and smelling faintly of old paper, ran a calloused thumb across the spine of…
lost
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Fragile Echoes
The air tasted like rain and cinnamon. It clung to my skin, a thick, viscous sweetness that made it hard to breathe, yet I didn’t want to. Not really. Because breathing was difficult anyway. Mostly, I just drifted. Drifted through…
The Graying World
The rain tasted like ash. It slicked the corrugated iron roofs of Salvation Creek, a film of silver reflecting a sky perpetually bruised. The air hung thick and heavy, the scent not of rain or earth, but something else –…