Beneath the Soundwell

Beautifully written urban fantasy whose central conceit — a metropolis where sound is currency — is as evocative as the prose. That said, the resolution felt rushed and a little too tidy. June's arc toward becoming the living register is emotionally resonant, but narratively convenient: once the reservoir and Chorus are revealed, the path to negotiation and restitution is telegraphed, and some of the tension evaporates. I also had questions about logistics that the story doesn't answer: how does the Pulse Authority justify the extraction publicly? What safeguards exist for abuse of the reservoir? The book gestures at these political complexities but prefers symbolic closure to messy policy realism. Still, the imagery (the kettle's recorded trill, the bruise of a missing laugh, the chorus feeding on voices) is memorable, and I enjoyed the moral ambiguity even as I wanted a bit more grit and complication in the ending.

I wanted to love this, and parts of it shimmer — the opening paragraph is lovely — but I kept running into familiar beats. The sound-as-currency conceit is clever, but the plot follows a very predictable arc: discover corruption, expose reservoir, broker compromise. June's decision to bind to the Chorus reads like a convenient way to avoid a more difficult ending. There are also pacing issues: the middle drags with exposition about meters and licensing that could have been trimmed, while the emotional fallout of Rafi's voice loss is mentioned often but not fully explored. The Chorus itself is intriguing, yet its mechanics (how it feeds, why the reservoir hoards expression) are never deeply interrogated. If you're after atmosphere, this delivers; if you want deeper structural surprises, you'll be disappointed.

Okay, so the city literally runs on vibes and I'm here for it. The set pieces — drones ferrying snippets of conversation, the kettle that sings you the morning news, the municipal reservoir hoarding people's expressions — are fun and a little sinister. June is sharp, practical, and not a martyr, which I appreciated; when she realizes the Pulse Authority is lying, you can see her gears turning. The scene where she watches collectors at work and then has to make that terrible bargain with the Chorus? Damn. Hits hard. I laughed at myself for getting emotionally invested in whether a brother's laugh would come back, but that tells you how well it was written. Also: the ending where she becomes the living register is such a grim-cool bit of worldbuilding — like, grim but with rules. Loved the moral gray. Would read a sequel in a heartbeat 😉

Quietly brilliant. The story balances a sharp concept with tender sibling stakes — Rafi's missing laugh gives the abstract economy real heart. I loved the small moments: the kettle's copied morning-show trill, the vents answering each other, June packing her satchel like she's preparing for both shift and discovery. The Chorus and the idea of a "living register" feel morally complicated in the best way; the resolution doesn't erase harm, it negotiates it. Very satisfying read, well-paced and emotionally resonant. Short, spare, and effective.

Smart worldbuilding and disciplined prose. The premise — a sound economy with meters, collectors and a bureaucratic Pulse Authority — is handled with admirable restraint; details like delivery drones carrying "clipped conversations stitched into their hulls" and the licensed collectors make the mechanics feel lived-in rather than expository. June's expertise (reading pitch the way a worker reads a gauge) is a neat way to ground the protagonist in the system and justify her investigative arc. My favorite structural move is how the narrative privileges listening: the book never forgets that sound is currency, comfort and weapon. The reveal of the reservoir that hoards voices and the emergent Chorus that feeds on expression are paced well and escalate logically to June's choice. If you like near-future urban fantasy that rewards attention to detail, this is worth your time.

I found myself holding my breath through whole sections of this — the city described by sound is such a vivid, aching idea. The opening lines where June "reads the morning by pitch" hooked me immediately; I could practically hear the tram-bass and the kettle's recorded trill. Rafi's missing laugh hit like a physical absence (that line about feeling it "like a bruise" is quietly devastating). The municipal reservoir and the Chorus are brilliant metaphors and genuinely creepy in practice: I loved the scene where June watches the collectors and realizes the Pulse Authority's extraction isn't as voluntary as advertised. The moral compromise at the end — her choice to become the city's living register — felt costly and honest. It's not a tidy victory, and I appreciated that the author let the consequences hang. Beautiful, humane, and a little bit terrifying: a rare combination that stayed with me long after I finished.