You wake up with the taste of copper and wet clay in your mouth, the dream still clinging to the back of your throat like a bad habit, a phantom limb that hasn’t quite learned how to stop aching. In the dream, you were not a man of flesh and blood, but a structure of wire and glass, suspended in a void so white it hurt, and you were trying to calibrate the tension of your own spine, adjusting...
The cellar was dark. It was a cube of shadow. I sat in the center. My father’s bones were not there. Only dust. And the smell of wet earth.
I had come to bury him. Or so I thought. The city above was loud. A roar of iron and steam. We were not allowed to speak of the dead here. The Law of the Surface forbade it. Silence was safety. Noise was death.
I am Thomas. I am of the Under. We live in the...
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