Rumi and Nix and the Workshop

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Above the clouds, where the sky is woven from silver thread, there is a factory called Somnus. It hums with soft machines that spin dreams into stars. Every night, the workers pour sleep into little glass bottles, ready to drift down to the world below. You have never been there, but tonight, you are.

You are Rumi, a small robot with copper plates that click when you move. Your joints are warm from years of winding down the great clock that keeps Somnus running. Tonight, the clock is silent. The factory is too quiet.

The floor beneath your feet is made of polished moonstone. It usually glows faintly, like a nightlight. Now, it is dull. The glass bottles on the shelves are empty. No stars swirl inside them. No dreams wait to be sent out.

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