The borderlands didn't wake up so much as they slowly exhaled. A low, grey mist clung to the jagged scrub brush, dampening the sounds of the camp. Around our small, makeshift circle, the remnants of our expedition were moving with the rhythmic, practiced efficiency of those who knew the cost of a slow morning.
I sat on a flat, mossy stone, cradling a mug of the local brew. It was thick, muddy, and tasted vaguely of scorched roots—a far cry from the complex, aromatic roasts I remembered from Earth. Fourteen days. It had been two weeks since I’d tasted a real cup, and the deficit was starting to grate on my nerves. I caught myself absentmindedly stirring the dark liquid, watching the swirl of cream disappear into the black. I had the memories, distant and layered, like fragments of a book I
