## The Static Bloom The dust tasted like forgotten birthdays. Old metal, a sweetness clinging to the grit that coated Lena’s tongue. She hadn’t felt rain in seven cycles, not real rain anyway. Just condensation clinging to the geodesic domes…
## The Violet Hour The chipped ceramic mug warmed Leo Maxwell’s palms. Rain lashed against the skylight of his workshop, a relentless drumming that mirrored the static in his head. He didn’t bother looking at the coffee; it tasted like…
The air tasted like rain and cinnamon. It clung to my skin, a thick, viscous sweetness that made it hard to breathe, yet I didn’t want to. Not really. Because breathing was difficult anyway. Mostly, I just drifted. Drifted through…