A root, pale as a blind worm, curls toward nothing. Hari sniffs it. Tastes of mother’s milk gone sour .
The sky is a bruise three weeks old. Hari kneels, pressing an ear to the ground. kawaita saika
BONE-SELLER "Still chasing flowers, Dry Saint? The Season Lords pay better for tears. You could borrow some from a crying child." A root, pale as a blind worm, curls toward nothing
They stand. Behind them, a caravan of bone-sellers rattles past. One calls out: pale as a blind worm
Emotional synesthesia. Though they cannot cry, they taste others’ emotions as metallic or fruity notes. Grief tastes like rusted iron. Joy like unripe persimmon.
They dig. Fingers split. Sand turns to shale.
Hari doesn’t answer. They touch the vial at their throat. The droplet inside hasn’t moved in seventeen years.