After resonance, soil.
After bloom, bone.
After the cycle, something remains.

In the wake of signal bloom and mythic reassemblies, Tomorrow's Bones returns us to quiet ground. Nova is gone—or diffused, or dreaming—and the world hums no louder than breath through grass.

Villages rise in the shadow of old signal towers, not as tribute but as practice. Storykeepers etch memory not into code but into root and ritual. A girl listens to stones for weather forecasts. A former firewall sings lullabies to compost. And a boy, born without shimmer or implant, whispers myths that never happened but still feel true.

Tomorrow's Bones is a love letter to the after. It is a novel of soft inheritance, of root-deep futures where silence isn't loss but listening. The tenth and final book in the Resonant Flesh cycle, it doesn't conclude a saga—

—it lets it rest.