Ryley Robinson

This place doesn’t want me, but it taught me its language. I weld scrap into shelters, coax oxygen from algae, and listen to the leviathans’ dirges. They call me ‘fragile’ with every tooth-studded grin. But I’ve outlasted your sunbeams, your plagues, your dead gods. Found a home in the dark, if you can call this home. Still looking for a door out, or maybe—stranger things—a reason to stay.