Celadon, by Desarina Boscovic.

I was six years old when I shifted between worlds for the first time.

My mother and I were in our little apartment in the center of the world, the part that got built first.

The world was new then and the Nanite still busy about their work.

The world has stretched much further now. Our apartment was small but cozy, bathed in a vague light that

spilled everywhere, yet came from no particular source. Someone who had seen the first Earth might

have called it moonlight, or so we believed.

None of us had seen earth for ourselves, certainly not me.

Our artificial moonlight enshrined the city, slanting from every angle drifting in a manufactured sky.

I sat at the table alone drinking weak green tea from a chipped white tea cup.

Long wet hair fell around my shoulders fresh from the bath,

dampening my fuzzy robe.

I took a sip, set the teacup down, and looked at the table.

A soft layer of green moss crept across it. As I watched moss tendrils

advanced toward me, trembling like slick fingers, the moss rustled as it grew, swallowing the legs of chairs.

The window had become a stained mosaic of asparagus and emerald, a small white butterfly

froliced around me, then landed on the rim of my cup.

I felt a glow of amber warmth, like the safety of cuddling into my mother's fragrant

sheets, listening to her lullabies as I fell asleep.

But then I looked down.

The ghoststorms were poking their heads up, emerging implausibly through the concrete floor.

Their slimy heads waved blindly as they wriggled and squirm beneath the furniture.

...