Threadless : A growing novel

The braid of thread lay between them like a vow spoken too softly, too long ago to be remembered — but not forgotten.

Rin turned it over in her palm, her fingers tracing the knots slowly, almost reverently. The red and black threads shimmered faintly in the low light. It shouldn't shimmer. It was just thread. But some things, once remembered, stop obeying the ordinary rules.

She looked up, voice low.

"Why do I feel like this was… mine?"

Aro didn't answer right away. He was staring at it too, but not in confusion — in silence. Like his mind had wandered into another life without asking permission.

When he finally spoke, his voice was far-off.

"I think… you gave it to me."

She blinked.

"In this life?"

Aro shook his head.

"No. When I was someone else."

Somewhere inside memory.

There was a garden.

Cracked pavement surrounded it, the city growing wild around its edges — but the middle remained soft. Green. Untouched. Someone had protected it.

A boy sat with a piece of string, fidgeting. Opposite him, a girl was braiding with intense concentration. Her hands moved like she'd done this before.

He leaned in.

"Why red?"

She didn't look up.

"Because it never lies."

He frowned.

"That doesn't make sense."

She smiled faintly, tying the last knot.

"It will."

She pressed the finished braid into his palm.

"If I forget you, this will remember for me."

He stared at it.

"And if I'm someone else?"

Her eyes met his, unwavering.

"Then I'll find you again. Even if I don't know why."

Now.

Rin closed her fingers around the braid.

It wasn't a vision. It wasn't even something she fully understood. Just… a certainty that slid into her bones like it had always belonged there.

She looked at Aro, her voice tight.

"Something's happening to us."

He nodded.

"Yeah."

Their voices had dropped, not out of fear — but reverence. As if speaking too loudly would disturb something sacred just starting to stir.

"I think," Rin said, "we were supposed to find this much later."

Aro looked toward the hallway. Not out of habit — out of instinct.

"…But we're not waiting anymore."

Rin followed his gaze.

From the ceiling, something else now floated — a thread. Not red or black this time, but a soft silver-gray, suspended in air, unmoving. Waiting.

She stepped forward. Reached toward it.

Aro caught her wrist, gently.

"Rin—"

She didn't pull away.

"…We keep forgetting. But this time, I want to know."

She touched the thread.

And in that moment—

something just behind the visible world opened.

Threadspace.

The Weaver froze mid-stitch. The thread in her needle pulled taut, as if reacting to something too far yet too close.

"She touched the tether," she whispered.

Threadwriter nodded, watching the ripple spread.

"They always do. When they're ready."

Behind them, the developers stirred.

One shifted its form into something resembling a mouth, and said:

"Should we shut it down?"

Threadwriter didn't blink.

"No. Let it unfold."

The Weaver looked at him.

"You trust them?"

"I trust the ones who remember even when it

hurts."

Back in the room.

The thread shimmered in Rin's palm. A silver pulse moved from it into her chest — and she gasped.

Aro stepped forward, catching her just before she fell.

He held her close, her breath hot against his collar.

"I saw something," she whispered. "Not just images. A… life."

Aro nodded. "Me too."

Rin didn't ask what. She knew it would come in pieces, just like the braid — knot by knot, life by life.

And outside the walls, the town exhaled. Lights flickered. Dust lifted. Shadows stretched and curved.

Something had woken.

Something very old.