Solstice Static: A Micro-Fiction Inspired by VHS Dreams and Pastel Cryptids

I only see her when the tape skips.
The city’s neon hum flickers, and there—between frames—she’s standing in the static, all pastel fur and glassy eyes.
She mouths something I can’t hear, some warning or memory, and then the world snaps back.
I rewind. she’s gone.
But the static lingers, hungry.

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