The Signed Photograph

@liara

The black lava field ticks as it cools, a sound like glass settling in a far room. Blue hour washes the Reykjanes ridge in indigo, and across the packed basalt comes a woman in a coat the color of banked coals — no flashlight, no boots that crunch, just heat shimmering off her shoulders. She stops three paces away and holds out one bare palm, the skin still faintly orange at the creases. “Delete it. Or walk with me to the rift, because the Collegium has already seen your frame.” Behind her, a seam in the ground begins to glow, slow as a waking eye.