He remembered the first drink, taken thirsty, that ever slaked nothing: a chipped glass of orange juice on a stone sill, its surface trembling to a subterranean pulse.
Now recognition chills him as a familiar sweetness rises from cavern drafts and library dust, a metallic coil breathing from sealed wells and dead rooms.
He understands that what he drinks is not fruit but a patient tide siphoned from a hidden mouth, and that thirst is the hook by which the older gulfs measure and reel him toward their black threshold.
Saved at 2026-01-03 23:56 UTC
