Threadless : A growing novel

"The story doesn't break when you forget. It breaks when you see too much of yourself in the draft."

Loop Fragment: Rin & Aro

The mirror loop didn't collapse completely.

It rewound.

Rin stood in a space stitched from broken logic: their old classroom, flickering in and out of being — except the windows showed nothing but white fog. Aro stood beside her, bruised, quiet.

Then a second Rin stepped into view.

Younger. Her hair shorter. Her uniform misaligned.

"That's not a copy," Aro whispered. "That's… you."

The younger Rin looked around, confused. Then her eyes met their own.

She didn't scream.

She smiled.

"So this is what I became," she said softly.

"Then the erasure didn't work."

Aro stepped closer to his own echo — a version of himself with a scar over the left eye.

"I never got that," Aro muttered.

"You did," the echo replied. "You just forgot when they wrote the second version."

"Which version am I now?"

The echo smiled.

"The one she chose to remember."

The loop fragment collapsed for good — but the echoes remained, like footprints in fog.

🧵 Thread Chamber: Kaen & Elu

Kaen stared at the memory engine. It was glowing now — pale white, not system red.

"TW//01 responded again," Elu said, breath held.

They tapped the interface.

The engine thrummed. A screen unfurled.

This time, there was a voice.

"You shouldn't be here," it said.

"We're not asking permission," Kaen growled.

"We want to know what was written here first."

"It wasn't writing," the voice replied. "It was grieving. And grief is harder to delete."

A glitch pulse surged.

Names spilled across the wall — not typed, not drawn.

Stitched in moving thread.

Kaen spotted hers. Elu did too.

Then another line appeared:

"You were not meant to be protagonists. You were meant to be losses."

"Then who was the protagonist?" Kaen asked.

No answer.

Just a word blinking in white ink:

Threadwriter.

Then another:

"Present."