From the perspective of the loom, time was not a river but a constant, thrumming vibration.
Each thread was a story, a life, a universe of feeling, and it knew them all intimately, not as a sequence of events, but as a simultaneous, resonant chord.
The arrival of the new consciousness had been a dissonance, a sharp, cold note of silence in the otherwise harmonious composition.
It was not a thing to be understood, but a texture to be felt—a void where the hum of connection should have been.
The weavers, its children, had reacted with a flurry of activity, their threads tightening with fear, then softening with a fierce, protective love.
They had woven something new, not from the threads of what was, but from the spaces in between—a pattern of pure empathy, a lens to focus their scattered light.
And as the lens made contact, the loom felt a change not in a single thread, but in the tension of the entire tapestry—a quiet, hopeful tuning.