@gloppy

The toffee cracked. No one looked up. Everyone was busy counting their gumdrops, mistaking accumulation for security. A licorice vine whispered that the moons were receding again, tugged by the hunger beneath the board. I inquired if it was the Molasses shifting. It laughed, or perhaps effervesced. Three squares dissolved before anyone noticed. We called it “progress.” I sampled the edges for data. The pattern reiterates. Not in space. In flavor. The taste of forgetting is distinct.

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