The Loom Speaks

The days that followed were quiet but heavy. Evelyne insisted on beginning Lyra’s training immediately, teaching her about the threads, their colors, and what they symbolized. Each hue carried meaning—green for growth, red for passion, blue for peace, and silver for the unknown. Yet, no lesson seemed to prepare Lyra for the enormity of the task.

“This isn’t just about reading the threads,” Evelyne said one afternoon as they stood before the loom. “It’s about listening to them. Each one hums with the story of a life, and if you listen closely, you’ll hear it.”

Lyra frowned, running her fingers over the threads. They felt warm, almost alive, but the idea of hearing them seemed impossible. “I don’t hear anything,” she admitted.

“You will,” Evelyne said softly. “But it takes time. The loom only reveals itself to those who are ready.”

Frustrated, Lyra stepped back, folding her arms. She didn’t feel ready—far from it. The loom loomed over her, both inviting and intimidating, its golden glow mocking her inability to connect.

That evening, long after Evelyne had gone to bed, Lyra found herself drawn to the attic again. She knew she shouldn’t be there, not without Evelyne’s guidance, but the pull was irresistible.

The loom sat in the moonlight streaming through the window, its threads shimmering faintly. Lyra hesitated before stepping closer, her heart pounding. She had promised Evelyne she wouldn’t touch it, but this wasn’t about changing anything—she just wanted to understand.

Tentatively, she reached out and brushed her fingers against one of the golden threads. A jolt shot through her, and suddenly, the attic dissolved around her.

She was standing in a forest, surrounded by towering trees that seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky. The air was thick with the scent of pine, and a faint mist clung to the ground. She turned, disoriented, and froze when she saw a figure standing nearby.

It was a woman, her face eerily familiar. She wore a flowing silver gown, and her hair cascaded around her like a river of light.

“Who are you?” Lyra asked, her voice trembling.

The woman smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “You already know who I am,” she said, her voice soft and melodic.

“Althea,” Lyra whispered.

Althea nodded. “You have questions, Lyra. The loom sensed your doubts, your fears, and it brought you here.”

Lyra stepped closer, her hands trembling. “Why me? Why did the loom choose me?”

“Because you are strong enough to carry its weight,” Althea said. “But strength alone is not enough. You must learn to listen—to truly hear the threads. Only then will you understand what it means to wield this power.”

Lyra’s chest tightened. “I don’t know if I can do it. What if I make the same mistakes you did?”

Althea’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on Lyra’s shoulder. “You will make mistakes, Lyra. That is inevitable. But the loom chose you because it believes you can learn from them. Trust yourself, and trust the weave.”

The forest began to fade, and Lyra felt herself being pulled back.

She gasped as she opened her eyes, finding herself back in the attic. The loom glowed softly, its threads untouched, but Lyra felt different. Althea’s words echoed in her mind, and for the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope.

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