## Alternansight The dust tasted of rust and forgotten things. Marcus coughed, the sound a dry rattle in the cavernous hall. He ran a calloused thumb across the fresco depicting the Battle of Cannae, the terracotta clay rough beneath his…
## The Grain of Memory The cabin exhaled Autumn. Beeswax clung to the air, a sweet counterpoint to the sharp tang of cedar plank. Dust motes danced in the slant of afternoon light, illuminating Elsie’s world. Not a pristine museum…
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…