Threadless : A growing novel

"The bell didn't ring at the start of class.

It rang to open something buried underneath."

The stairs didn't exist yesterday.

Now they were behind the janitor's closet on the east wing — a door that opened on its own as Aro passed.

She didn't hesitate.

The stairwell smelled like fire and ink. Cold metal under her feet, and threads hanging from the ceiling like stray roots. She followed them down.

At the bottom, the sign:

Threadforging Workshop

Please do not bring memories you're unwilling to lose.

She stepped through.

Inside, it was quiet — except for the slow hum of machines that didn't seem mechanical.

Looms, yes. But not like the ones in history books. These were living, pulsing with silver thread that moved without hands.

At the far end of the room: a forge. But instead of fire, it held light in reverse — like someone had bent a sunbeam backward and told it to wait.

A figure stood beside it.

She wore a smith's apron, eyes masked by protective lenses, hair tied with black ribbon. She looked young, but old at the edges — like time had stopped correcting her.

"I'm your forgemaster," the woman said, without turning.

"You're not the first to come back."

Aro stepped closer. "Back?"

The woman finally turned.

"Threadforging isn't about making new things."

She held out a pair of gloves stitched with mirrored cloth.

"It's about restoring what you once refused to carry."

Meanwhile, far above, the bell tower clicked three times — though no clock turned.

Rin stood at the edge of the west courtyard mirror wall.

His reflection blinked first.