The diner’s neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting a pink glow over the cracked pavement. Clara wiped the counter with a rag that smelled of burnt coffee and regret, her fingers tracing the same groove in the wood…
The salt-kissed air tasted like memory as Clara stepped off the creaking dock, her boots sinking into the damp sand. The harbor smelled of brine and diesel, a scent that clung to her like a second skin. She hadn’t been…
The rain tasted like rust. It hammered against the corrugated iron roof of G Catedral da Lua Negra, a constant, insistent rhythm that mirrored the frantic beat of my pulse. Lisbon clung to me, slick and fragrant with wet stone…
The chipped basalt warmed beneath Falon’s palm. It wasn’t the stone itself, though ancient and weighty, but the feel of *him* woven into it—Elio. Centuries of silence clung to the giant’s legacy, a vow stretched taut until someone saw…what, exactly?…