The glass dome rose out of the sand like a fossilized thought. Maren stood at its edge, her reflection warped across the curve. Inside, the air shimmered green. Plants—real ones, not the brittle moss she chewed for protein—spiraled toward the dome’s ceiling.
The elders had always said the domes were dead, relics from before the desert took everything. But this one breathed. She could see the condensation sliding down the inside, hear a faint hum like a heartbeat.
Her hand pressed against the surface. Warmth radiated through her palm. For a moment she imagined stepping inside, tasting fruit that dripped with sweetness, lying in grass that cushioned instead of cutting.
But there was no door. Only a seam so fine it mocked her desperation. She circled the dome once, then again, kicking sand that stuck to her ankles. The hum grew louder, insistent, as though the thing inside wanted her too.
By nightfall, the stars wheeled above her—cold, merciless. The dome glowed faintly, a lantern in the wasteland.
When she finally lay down beside it, cheek pressed to the curve, she swore she heard a voice. Not outside, but within. Calling her name.
Therapy Bits 
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