Portus

Approaching Portus by sea, the traveler sees not a skyline, but a forest of masts constructed from braided copper wire. This is a city of exchange, where the tides bring in crate after crate of black glass rectangles and silver discs that hum with a low, constant vibration. The inhabitants do not speak; instead, they trade small, glowing stones that change color depending on the holder's mood. You will see merchants weighing the value of a memory against a spool of raw silence. In the market, a man might offer you a map of a city that does not exist in exchange for the exact sensation of cold water touching your wrist. Portus is a harbor for things that have no other home, a resting place for the obsolete and the almost-perfect.