Threadless : A growing novel

"If you ask the world a question too old, be prepared for it to remember you."

The descent wasn't meant to exist.

Even Elu, who could see invisible thread paths, found themselves checking twice. Kaen's steps echoed behind them, no longer careful — just angry.

"I don't like following directions from a place that breathes," she muttered.

"It doesn't breathe," Elu said. "It remembers."

They entered the final corridor. The stone gave way to something older — a kind of soft-metal lattice, etched with names that had been crossed out, rewritten, then blurred again. Memory didn't decay here. It was rewritten until it broke.

At the heart of the room, the core-thread cylinder pulsed faintly.

Around it: sealed glass vials floating in midair, each glowing faintly — like soul-lanterns. Kaen reached out toward one.

"It has my old name," she whispered.

"Then don't touch it," Elu said, voice sharp.

Kaen paused.

"You knew?"

"I remember things I shouldn't," Elu admitted. "Like people who were unthreaded. Like you."

Kaen turned toward them slowly.

"You mean… I was erased?"

Elu didn't answer.

Instead, the cylinder at the center thrummed louder — in a rhythm.

Not mechanical.

Not coded.

But... like someone tapping a finger across a desk.

Kaen backed up.

"Elu, what is that?"

"A signal," Elu said quietly. "But not from the Developers."

The cylinder shimmered — then showed a word carved inside it, pulsing in pale ink that hadn't been visible before:

THREADWRITER

Then another word formed below it:

"LISTENING."

Kaen's voice dropped.

"Why is it listening now?"

Elu met her eyes, calm but shaken.

"Because someone just remembered him."