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The coworking space never slept. It only dimmed, like a city seen through smoked glass. Server racks lined the walls in uneven rows, their LEDs blinking in patient, predatory rhythms—greens pulsing like slow heartbeats, reds flaring like warning flares that no one answered. The air smelled of overheated plastic and burnt coffee, and the constant hum of fans pressed against my ears until silence felt theoretical.
The square lay empty beneath the clocktower, its stones slick with the night’s cold breath. Frost traced the mortar lines like pale veins, and the statues of saints watched with eyes dulled by centuries of soot. Above them all rose the tower—gothic ribs climbing into darkness, its clock face a moon caught in iron. When it chimed, the sound was not a bell so much as a presence, pressing against the ribs and the lungs alike.
The crystal islands drifted in their slow, obedient ellipses around the sun, and I drifted with them, a small note held in a vast throat of light. From the bridges of glass that braided one island to the next, I could hear the sun breathing—each exhalation a reddening sigh, each inhalation thinner than the last. The air tasted of metal and honey, warmed until it hummed against the tongue. When I closed my eyes, the light pressed violet through my lids, and the old songs rose unbidden in my chest.