SILVERPOINT

Some memories are too precious to keep. Some are too dangerous to lose.

In Argentyne — a fog-drowned canal city built on dead silver mines and the photograph factories that outlived them — everything remembers. Press your thumb to an old teacup, a brass doorknob, a dead man's coat, and if you have the gift, you fall bodily inside the moment pressed into the metal. You walk a frozen afternoon back to life. You witness who did what to whom.

Sixteen-year-old Iris Voss does exactly that for thin coin, unlicensed and unlicensed-looking, a scarred field coat lined with photographs of a life she's not sure is hers. But the gift is really a slow theft. Every dive she takes tarnishes a piece of her own past. Her left eye is going silver at the edge, like breath on glass. And there is one entire year of her life she cannot find at all — a blank she keeps circling and never reaches.

Then a grieving widower mentions the Clarity: the beloved, spotless clinics that lift your worst day away, free of charge. Their pristine white bills are pasted over every filthy wall in the Tarnish. The worst day of your life — gone. Iris pulls one thread from a dying man's thinning mind, and it runs straight into a citywide machine of professional forgetting — and into the exact shape of her own missing year, fading faster than she can hold it, with a single buried instruction left behind in the grey.

Three days. Three unlikely allies — a mudlark who smells fresh grief on dredged trinkets, a soggy liar of a canal-dog, and one truth Iris can't afford to trust. One rule of her craft she'll have to break. And a Day of Clarity coming that promises to wipe the truth from every mind in the city at once.

Atmospheric, tender, and razor-sharp, SILVERPOINT is noir soaked in silver light — where remembering is a wound and the only kindness left is a witness.

Begin Season One today.