## The Static Bloom The chipped Formica countertop felt cold under Aris Thorne’s elbows. He hadn’t slept properly in seventy-two hours, not since the first tremor hit the data stream. Not since the birds started *singing* in code. He squinted…
## The Echo Bloom The air tasted of sulfur and iron, a familiar tang to Lyra. Her boots crunched on obsidian dust as she descended the geothermal stairwell, the rhythmic pulse of the earth thrumming against her ribs. Above, the…
## The Bloom Collector The salt spray tasted like ghosts. Wren traced the chipped Formica of the galley table, knuckles white against the faded blue. Outside, the *Cerulean’s* hull hummed, a low thrum against the perpetual gray of the Pacific.…