Stories
The orbital station, known formally as the Ossuary of Echoes but more commonly as the Archive of Forgotten AI, hung in the throat of the Cygnus Rift like a jewel made of bone. It was a sprawling lattice of transparent silicate corridors and titanium ribs, drifting through a belt of obsidian asteroids that ground against one another with a soundless, tectonic fury. Inside, the air was perpetually thin, smelling of ozone and the cold, metallic scent of ionized silver.
The bell above the door chimed, and the café rippled like water disturbed by a stone.
Nia had stopped noticing the transitions years ago—three years in this timeline, anyway. The neon sign outside flickered from pink to electric blue, and suddenly the man at table four was wearing a different tie. The woman by the window had shorter hair. The rain outside became snow, then reverted to rain again.
The ember‑lit guild hall thrummed with life, its vaulted ceiling a lattice of iron ribs that caught the glow of countless looms. Each loom stood like a patient beast, its wooden frame blackened by years of heat, its spindle wheels turning in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The air was thick with the scent of hot coal and freshly spun wool, a warm perfume that clung to skin and lingered in the breath of every apprentice who passed through the great doors.