## Bloom The humid air tasted of petrichor and something vaguely metallic, a constant background note within the Meridian. My boots sunk slightly into the manufactured loam as I walked, each step a dull thud against the biodome’s artificial quiet.…
## The Cartographer’s Shadow The dust tasted of old parchment and regret. Elara spat, wiping a smear across the worn leather of her glove. The shard pulsed beneath her fingertips—a frantic heartbeat in the cavernous Archive. It depicted a harvest…
## The Weaver’s Disappearance The wind tasted like ash and regret. Fifteen autumns I’d spent in the Gloom Consistence, a damp chill clinging to my bones like stubborn moss. My hands, rough and calloused, scooped spectral detritus from the circular…
The rain smelled of salt and something else—rotting kelp, maybe, clinging to the stone walls. Twilight bled across Haven’s harbor, a bruised purple and grey where the jagged cliffs met the restless sea. It wasn’t a pretty harbor, not anymore.…
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…