Mikhailis emptied his coat-pockets onto the uneven wooden table with a slow, almost ceremonial sweep. One by one the items landed, each giving off its own soft note of contact—metal, glass, wax, and plastic composing a quiet percussive chord that drifted away far too quickly in the damp, hushed air.
The holo-phone clinked against the brass pocket-watch, the old brass answering the slick glass with a deeper, older ring. A few honey-tart wrappers—all that remained of dinner—fluttered free of a wax-paper fold and settled like faded petals. A foldable tablet, hinges worn to the raw aluminum, snapped half-open and slid forward as if eager to dive off the edge. A slender glass flask engraved with delicate runes rolled, bumping gently into his wrist. The blue runes along its spine pulsed once, dimly, then went still.
He eyed the collection. They looked small, even pitiful, under the moss-glow. To him they were charms, survival kits, and distractions in equal measure.
