Heat Static
Pressure on the cool glass created ripples that wavered like summer heat, mirroring the distant siren’s low thrum. Warmth gathered in your palm as you continued to press, and something shifted beyond simple reflection; outlines softened at the edges of things. The feeling wasn't a recalling of what *was*, but an assembling of futures—a quiet responsiveness blooming within the solid form. Then, with each subtle adjustment, the glass seemed to breathe back against your touch.
