The sky over the Tethys Glassfields shimmered, light bending as if the world were drowning. Ishaan knelt among the crystal stalagmites, his exovial suit humming softly. His job was simple: harvest the fragile shards before seismic winds shattered them. But today, the structures hummed back.
He placed a gloved hand on the nearest spire. Vibrations pulsed through his fingertips—patterns, almost language. The Glassfields were speaking. A warning? A plea? His comm crackled. “Stormfront incoming. Wrap it up.”
He hesitated. The brittle structures undulated, forming new configurations. He wasn’t sure how, but he understood: they were asking to be left alone.
Ishaan shut off his tools. Abandoning his quota meant losing his contract, but destroying something that was trying to communicate—he couldn’t.
Back at the outpost, his supervisor scowled at the empty case. Ishaan just smiled. He had heard something priceless.
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