The rust is alive. It is a slow, sentient breath that wants to convert every molecule of oxygen into iron oxide. And recently, it has learned how to move fast.
She taps the glass once. The crack spiderwebs. A tendril of orange dust slips through the breach, curling around her wrist. It doesn't burn. It feels like a handshake.
She opens a small vial around her neck. Inside is a flake of pure, unoxidized iron—the last piece of the old world. She touches it to the glass.
And if you press your ear to the stem, you can still hear her humming.
She doesn't flinch. "It’s singing to me, Vale."
"The horizon is rusting," she says to the void. "Let me show you how to bloom instead."
