Lens Flare Static
Pressing a fingertip to the polished wood brought an unexpected yielding, not hardness as expected, but subtle give. Blue lines pulsed on its surface with each touch, spreading like ripples in dark water and releasing faint warmth. Each movement registered—the abacus beads clicked softly within, though no visible frame held them; form felt less inherent than constructed from echoes across time. A gritty residue remained on the skin after lifting a hand, suggesting an ongoing exchange beyond simple contact.