Crimson Threads
## Crimson Threads The air tasted of salt and dust, a perpetual film on Anya’s tongue. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she wrestled the loom, its wooden frame groaning under the strain of vibrant silk threads. Around her, the…
pigment
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The Static Bloom
## 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…