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The Faded ParadoxThe rain against the window of the hospital room was a rhythmic, deafening drum, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones, and I sat there, my hands folded tightly in my lap, watching the water streak down the glass in long, distorted lines that looked like tears. I was thirty-two years old, a data analyst for a mid-sized insurance firm in Chicago, and I had spent the last...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe floorboard screamed. It was a high, thin shriek. Like a bird snapping its neck. Detective Silas Thorne did not flinch. He stood in the center of the room. His hand rested on the hilt of his sidearm. The wood of the floor was oak. Old oak. Dark. It bled sap into his boots. "Stop moving," he said. His voice was gravel. Dry. Cold. The air in the room was thick. It smelled of wet wool and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe road to the Spire was not a road at all, but a scar of white quartz that cut through the violet fog of the Undercity, winding upward into a sky that had forgotten the sun. Silas Vane walked it with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man who had long ago ceased to count his steps, his boots striking the crystalline surface with a dull thud that echoed back to him from the walls of the tunnel like...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe dream was not a dream but a slow, viscous bleeding of reality into the marrow of my bones, a phenomenon the physicians in the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Chronically Displaced would later classify as acute ontological slippage, a term so cold and clinical it made my teeth ache with a phantom pain that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, industrial soot that clung to the wool of coats and the iron of the railings. It was a town built on the bones of coal and the sweat of men who had long since stopped asking questions about their health. Thomas Vane stood in the center of the town square, his hand resting on the cold brass of the fountain’s rim. He was a man of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the cobblestones into mirrors of broken sky. Inside the manor, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Elias stood by the window, his small hands pressed against the cold glass, watching the garden dissolve into mud. He was ten years old,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the garden of the Whitmore estate into a soup of mud and dying flowers, and inside the high-ceilinged drawing room, Arthur Whitmore sat in a wingback chair upholstered in faded velvet, his hands resting on his knees, trembling with a vibration that seemed to emanate from the very marrow of his bones, for he had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe dream began with the sound of steam. It was a high, thin whistle, cutting through the dark of his mind. Thomas woke before the whistle faded. The room was cold. The coal fire had died to gray ash. He lay still, listening to the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. It was three in the morning. The town of Oakhaven slept beneath a blanket of soot and silence. He sat up. His bones ached. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe banquet hall of the Obsidian Bureau did not smell of roasting goose or spiced wine, as the old-world feasts had, but of ozone, burnt copper, and the metallic tang of static discharge. It was a celebration of the Third Harmonic Stabilization, a victory for the Ministry of Atmospheric Control, and I sat at the head table, my uniform pressed to a mirror shine, my hands trembling beneath the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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