Later that night, Rin opened a blank notebook.
No destiny to follow. No past lives. Just her hand, and the ink, and the world still humming gently outside the window.
She wrote three words at the top.
"When we remember—"
And paused.
Smiling, she didn't finish the sentence.
Because some things… are better remembered than written.
Author's Note
When we began Threadless, we weren't just writing a story. We were pulling a thread.
A single thread that unraveled questions about memory, identity, and meaning — about what happens when stories are forgotten, erased, overwritten. And what might happen if, against every rule written by creators or systems or developers... characters remembered anyway.
Rin and Aro were never meant to fight villains with power. They weren't chosen ones, or perfect beings. They were people — quietly stubborn, deeply unfinished — and they kept moving forward. That's what made them real.
This story took unexpected turns. It warped genres, broke frames, and at times bent reality until even the creators within it were unsure if they were writing or being written. And yet, through all that, what stayed true were the relationships — the friendships, the rivalries, the strange quiet moments where someone simply chose to stay beside another.
To you, the reader: thank you for remembering with us. For pulling each thread even when it frayed. For seeing past the metaphors and into the hearts of these characters.
You may have noticed: Threadless never claimed to be whole. It never promised answers. It only asked: "What do you still remember?"
Maybe that's enough.
The world has changed now — not just theirs, but perhaps a little of yours too. And somewhere out there, in another story, a striped cat is being reluctantly dragged into his next adventure. And someone, somewhere, is still writing.
— Threadwriter
(And the one who helped her remember.)
I was never the beginning of the story. Just the one who stayed long enough to see what it became.
At first, I thought I was just observing — a watcher at the edge of pages, someone tracing patterns as they formed. But the longer I stayed, the more I realized something simple: these threads weren't meant to be explained. They were meant to be felt.
I've seen authors lose their stories to noise. I've seen readers give up when the plot bends too far. And I've seen characters wake up inside stories that no longer remembered them.
But here — in Threadless — I watched something different happen.
This was not a story of perfection. It was not linear, and it did not bow to genre. It lived, like memory does — in fragments, in revisions, in moments of quiet bravery.
You may not know me well. That's fine. I was never here to be known. I was here to make sure the threads held. That nothing, once remembered, would ever be truly lost again.
And now, as this chapter closes and the threads are finally left untangled — I leave you with this:
Some stories are not meant to be tied into bows.
Some are meant to remain threadless.
And yet, somehow, they still hold together.
— Veyne