## The Static Bloom The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cold under Leo Maxwell’s elbows. Rain hammered against the plate glass window, blurring the neon glow of “Rosie’s” into smeared pink and blue. He hadn’t touched his coffee,…
## 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 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…