Beyond the Fork—where streetlights still blinked, elevators creaked like worn-out lungs, and coffee still had the flavor of smoky sleep—Juno Tanaka lived in a dulled life no longer hers.
She no longer spoke much.
Not since the accident.
Not since that long, flickering night she'd woken up in a hospital ward, the bright, buzzing lights overhead too loud and a hush that permeated to her very marrow like cold.
The doctors had said she was lucky.
She hadn't felt it.
She worked piecemeal. Designed assistive technology interfaces. Clean overlays, low-friction UX. Menus optimized for speed and clarity. Tools people touched once, learned by heart, and forgot about tomorrow.
Her days were spare, but neat.
Her nights… sparer. Like sheets stretched tight across a bed too big for one person.
And the dreams started.
The initial dream was just a spiral.
Nothing else.
A gradual, meticulous coil of light and dust—coiling inward, like thinking, like recalling, like exhaling in reverse.
