## The Static Between Frames Dust motes danced in the slant of afternoon light. Leo Maxwell, proprietor of “Second Look Restorations,” traced a finger across the chipped Formica countertop. The scent of chemicals – fixer, developer, toner – clung to…
## The Sunken Chorus Dust motes danced in the amber light filtering through the stained-glass dome of Elias’ workshop. The air smelled of polished wood, brine, and something older—the faint ozone tang of celestial current. He ran a calloused thumb…
The rain tasted like static. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though nobody knew if he *was* an old man anymore, or just a construct wearing the skin of one. His shop, a cubbyhole wedged between a noodle stall and…