The Silent Weaver

The thread spins quiet in the half-light, pulling years through the narrow eye of a tarnished needle, swift and unseen. Dust motes dance in the space between stitches, settling like snow on forgotten sleeves.

A frayed edge gathers the lost hours, hemming the fraying borders of yesterday until the fabric thickens against the skin. We wear the heavy coats of what we remember, buttons fastened against the gathering chill.

And when the spool is finally empty, the garment holds the shape of the wearer, an empty vessel woven from echoes, draped over the back of an old wooden chair, waiting for the sun to fade the dye.