Yasmin, like Ferenc, enjoyed stories. He collected them. She watched those tales shape and reshape themselves over centuries and light-years, under the shifting light of political notions.
Yasmin remembered that ghost-opera projected in the Dome by Mavra’s old holo-cube projector. Dancers and singers centuries dead filled the darkness of the vault with living song and the glow of stage-shadow. The cascade of red glitter at the denouement–a sacrifice, to a god none of them believed in–and the whole thing wrapped in feeling …
A feeling she’d only had the word for years later: nostalgia. That dim autumn fog took the edge off things, turned steel blades to pearly strokes of light and blood to red glitter.
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