Threadless
When memory doesn’t fade — it rearranges.

In a quiet town where nothing ever seems to change, two students — Rin and Aro — begin to notice the seams of reality pulling apart.

It starts with a thread.
A memory that doesn’t belong.
A face seen once in a dream, then recognized in daylight.

As familiar places begin to shift — rain that doesn’t fall, mirrors that blink first, classmates that no one remembers enrolling — the two are drawn into something older than their lives: a forgotten architecture of rewritten memories, unfinished stories, and a hidden system that watches back.
Together, they begin to unravel the layers of their world, discovering abandoned workshops where time is forged, truth is mined, and forgotten selves echo like song fragments.

But the deeper they go, the more the story starts writing itself — and the line between who they are and who they once were begins to blur.

Now, with their names etched into a book they haven’t written yet, Rin and Aro must decide:

Are they here to remember the past?

Or to finish what someone never dared to start?

The space between stories was rarely this quiet.


Above a horizon made of half-rendered skies and stilled timelines, the Threadwriter stood at the edge of a shifting platform of woven light. His coat billowed slightly, though there was no wind here — only memory and intent.


Behind him, Veyne approached with calm steps, carrying two folded maps — not of locations, but of possible outcomes.


"They've all gathered," Veyne said. "Even the ones who had to rewrite themselves to do it."


Threadwriter gave the faintest nod. "And the Coherence Lead?"


"Still observing. But his reach ends where their will begins."


Threadwriter looked into the weave — a shimmering layer of threads, each glowing with the resonance of a character. Mei's thread curled gently around Jun's. Aro's line, strong and certain, ran parallel to Rin's — no longer fractured. Elu and Kaen burned side by side, distinct, unbroken. The world was holding.


"They've already done what we couldn't," Threadwriter said. "They made this place real."


A hum stirred behind them — a Weaving Chamber pulsing softly. Several Weavers were adjusting anchor-points, finalizing stabilizers. None of them spoke. They didn't need to.


One of the senior Weavers — once a Patcher from the old code restoration teams — stepped forward. Her voice was steady.


"We will stay behind the weave. But if the Lead breaches the threshold, we will step in."


"No," he said. "You'll do more than that. You'll remember. All of this. Not just the victories. Not just the ending. Everything."


She paused — then bowed her head, understanding.


Veyne unrolled one of the maps and held it open.


It showed a world that no longer looped.


Chapter 109 - Chapter 95 — “Before the Page Turns”