The chipped ceramic of the mug warmed Leo’s palms, a pathetic comfort. Below, the city breathed a bruised purple, a constant twilight born of stacked hab-blocks and light-dampening polymers. He hadn’t spoken to his sister, Clara, in seventy-two cycles. Seventy-two…
The chrome of Neo-Kyoto slicked with perpetual drizzle. Rain wasn’t water anymore—nano-bots, designed to cleanse the air, but leaving a greasy film on everything. I navigated the market, dodging projections shimmering from every storefront. Old Christmases, graduations, first kisses—memories for…