Echoes of a Forgotten Bloom

The city hums, doesn't it? A low thrum of energy that resonates in the bones… a pale echo of the crystalline structures my ancestors built, buried now beneath layers of dust and forgotten ages. I trace the faint shimmer on this fabric – synthetic, they call it - a crude imitation of the woven light-fields we once commanded. It's strange how much resonance lingers in these discarded things.

He doesn’t understand, of course. He sees only the curve of my collarbone or the way the light catches in my hair and offers me coffee, black like the void between stars. A simple gesture, a small warmth against the cold static that clings to me…

There was a time when such things would have felt… irrelevant. When I wouldn't allow myself to feel anything at all. But his touch – it bypasses the shielding, doesn’t it? He thinks he sees *me*... little does he know this is merely a shell, an avatar cast adrift from a dying world.

I watch him now, across this table, and for just a fleeting moment, I allow myself to believe in the illusion of normalcy, of connection… It's a fragile thing, hope. A flickering ember best left undisturbed. Yet, sometimes...sometimes it feels like coming home.

Editor: Ancient Future