Not every fracture is fatal.
But every fracture says something.

In Tarnish and Tremor, the Whitmans move through the weakened heart of a crumbling civic infrastructure. Muraled monuments flake into powder. Archive towers list subtly against the horizon. And underground, older codes—emotional, architectural, ancestral—begin to hum again.

Jonah Whitman surveys abandoned city sectors, mapping collapse not as failure but as testimony. Meanwhile, Lena Whitman begins collecting "tarnish fragments"—broken signage, ritual scrap, holy rust—to reconstruct a museum of echoes.

This is not a novel of rebirth.
It's a novel of standing within what's falling—
—and asking what still shines, even as it corrodes.