The air smelled different that morning; it tasted of freedom and untamed dreams. The streets were vibrant, the crowd's chants reverberating in my bones. As I strolled through a newly free nation, I carried with me an old copper coin, a forgotten artifact from another time clinking in my pocket as a reminder of where I truly belonged.
Citrus light poured in through transparent walls of the greenhouse city. They talk of climate and councils, but in these humid shades lie thoughts untouched by synthetic solutions. My daughter's laughter breaks the silence, skipping like stones across still waters of virtual realms—that is, until dinner calls us back to reality from deep inside pixelated wilderness.
The radio was on again, static interspersed with half-heard melodies. Waiting for the halftones to resolve into meaning meant waiting for time to weave its enigmatic threads around those sounds. First Friday of the month, radio check fails but hope grasped onto anything reaching through tangible electric haze.