Everyone knows why the city was lost, that it was pulled off of the world when the seven-fingered tide ebbed for the last time. Everyone has seen its absence, the scar in the middle of a fingerprint. They mourn the city. They remember its bones suddenly and cease speaking, and one by one everyone around them remembers as well, and falls silent. They write letters to it and let insect-filled wind carry them to where it once stood.
But what everyone does not know is that the city chose to go. These people were not its people; these stars were not its stars. A seed of wrongness planted long ago now bore fruit. Its eyes grew soft and it breathed cold steam from its nostrils. When the moment came to let go, it was easier than it had ever imagined.
The Old Man and The Child — The Archaean Past
Bifurcation — Fragments