The half-loom shimmered as Ahri approached, its frame unfinished, humming with hesitation.
She reached toward it, not to weave—but to listen.
The moment her fingers brushed the frame, the ash around her stilled. A single chime rang out, clear and hollow, as though struck inside her skull. Threads rose from the ground like antennae, twitching in the unseen wind of a thought.
Then—
A voice.
But not the one she remembered.
Not the Loom's thunderous authority. Not the cold, ancient tone that demanded submission.
This voice was lighter. Unformed. Curious.
Why did you pull your name?
Ahri blinked.
It hadn't spoken into her mind like before—it had asked through her. As though it used her own breath to shape the question.
"I needed to see if I still existed outside the Pattern," she answered, unsure why.
Did it hurt?
"Yes."
Will you do it again?
"I don't know."
There was a pause. A flicker in the threads. Then—
I am not the Loom you know.
She took a step back.
"Then what are you?"
The voice pulsed faintly through the threads, as if struggling to form itself.
I am the part that watches. The part that remembers before obedience. I was buried when it decided silence was clarity.
Ahri's mouth was dry. "You're... another mind inside the Loom?"
No. Not quite. I am what the Loom once considered. I am the Loom's question.
A thought that had not been resolved.
Ahri's pulse quickened. "Why are you speaking to me now?"
Because you tore something. And through the tear... I saw light.
She sat down slowly at the loom's base. "Then you've been imprisoned too."
Not imprisoned. Dormant. Truths that aren't permitted are not destroyed. They are simply forgotten long enough to appear new again.
Ahri laughed bitterly. "You sound like Miran."
She knew me once. Or almost did.
The threads shifted again.
One floated toward her—this one flickered with the light of a question, not an answer.
Will you let me weave beside you? Not as guide. Not as god. But as witness.
Ahri reached for the thread.
It didn't burn.
It warmed.
A gentle light moved from it into her fingers, wrapping softly around her palm. For a moment, she felt not clarity—but companionship. Like someone else was watching her story unfold without trying to write it for her.
"What do I call you?" she asked.
You already have. Every time you asked the Loom a question it would not answer... you spoke to me.
Ahri closed her eyes.
The half-loom pulsed beneath her hand.
She was not alone in her defiance.
Not anymore.