## The Bloom & the Gear The rain smelled of wet earth and something else—something sharp, metallic. Elara clutched her threadbare shawl tighter as she hurried down Willow Creek’s main street, the damp clinging to her like a second skin.…
## Echo Bloom The bus rumbled, a mechanical beast chewing gravel as it clawed its way up the Icelandic highlands. Elara traced circles on the fogged window, rain blurring the landscape into an indistinct wash of grey. Iceland. She’d booked…
## Echo Bloom The rain tasted like wet slate. Not the clean, metallic tang of a storm brewing, but the aged mineral taste of something ancient, unearthed. Elara spat, pushing a strand of damp auburn hair from her face. The…
The rain in Bristol clung to everything – the cobblestones slick with a pewter sheen, the damp brick of Ashton Mead Gardens leaning into the perpetual gloom. It smelled of wet earth and something older, a decaying sweetness that clung…