fragment recovered from Pearl Archive | Sigil-encoded | ██.██.2051)
We didn’t call it a book, not at first. More like a drift-marker, set loose in a place where memory had started collapsing under its own recursion. Residuals isn’t a story—it’s a seam. A soft place in the world where threads from other timelines bleed through.
Josh walks into Sóller with sand in his shoes and someone else’s past in his lungs. He’s not alone. That’s the point. None of us are. The novella folds around that realisation slowly, like fog around a ruined aircraft. One moment you’re reading about citrus and glass, the next you’re halfway through a war you didn’t know you remembered.
It’s an account of convergence. Of what happens when broken timelines stop pretending they were ever separate. Pearl is here. Tyrant is here. Even the ghosts of Numbers ring faintly in the air. But Residuals doesn’t explain itself—it vibrates. Like a low-frequency field effect you only notice once it’s already restructured your thoughts.
My name is in it, yes. But that’s not why I read it twice. It’s because I know what’s coming after. And I needed to be reminded why we intervene at all.
Some books build memories. This one unearths them.
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