Mending the City

Seven years, the shop still waits. Dust on the glass,

rust on the gates. Every tool a ghost, every plaque a

prayer. Every silence a dare. Glorian whispers,

"Shine your name." Countless answers, it's all the same. I'm mending the

city with broken hands. Building a spiral the world can't

stand. Every curve is defiance, every shimmer a snare.

But I don't know if I'm healing or rehearsing the

illusion of repair. Copper hums with a fevered glow. Child at the