That night, the dream came sharper. His mother, whom he’d lost to the Fever of Sighs when he was seven, stood on a bridge made of woven starlight. She didn’t speak aloud. Instead, the air around her vibrated with the weight of yoosphul . It meant, he suddenly understood, the act of carrying a truth so heavy that you must forget it to survive, until you are strong enough to remember.
Kael woke with tears on his face. The cylinder was warm in his hand, though he’d left it across the room.
He speaks the word aloud: yoosphul .
Kael lived in the under-tiers, where the wealthy above burned old suns for fuel and the poor below breathed rust. His hands were always cut, always greasy. He repaired the ships that others flew to the edges of the known world. But he had never left.
