The days that followed were hushed and strange, like the Hollow was holding its breath. Though the sky had softened, and the silver threads no longer bled from the great tree, a quiet sorrow lingered—woven into the air, the soil, and the water.
Morya moved through it like a ghost, whole in body but not in soul.
Nima's absence was not a void—it was an ache. The kind that hummed in every lantern, echoed in every ripple, whispered through the reeds. Her name could no longer be spoken without consequence, yet her presence saturated everything.
Erielle kept her distance. She wandered the Hollow's edge, mending old seams with her broken scissors, now reforged in remembrance.
Morya, meanwhile, spent her nights beside the glowing lantern—her only link to the friend who had rewritten fate.
Until one night—
The flame inside the lantern flickered, then flared blue.
And a voice—not heard, but felt—washed over her.
"Morya. The threads aren't done. You must follow the echo."
Startled, Morya whispered back.
"Nima?"
No answer. Just a gust of wind that rustled the tree and caused the nearby waters to stir.
She turned to Erielle at dawn.
"She's reaching out."
Erielle nodded solemnly.
"Some threads refuse to be cut. Nima's soul was strong—stronger than the Hollow expected."
"So she's still alive?"
Erielle hesitated.
"Not alive… but not gone. She's in the Unwoven Realm, a place where forgotten names drift and unfinished stories tangle."
"Then I'm going to find her."
Erielle narrowed her eyes.
"You've only just returned. The Unwoven is perilous, even for me."
"I don't care. If there's even a chance she's still... reachable, I'll take it."
Erielle exhaled slowly and placed something in Morya's palm: a silver needle, carved with runes that shimmered and vanished with every blink.
"This belonged to the First Weaver. It's the only way to thread between what's woven and what isn't."
Morya nodded, resolve lighting her eyes for the first time in days.
"Then show me the rift."
That night, beneath a crescent moon, Erielle led Morya to the northern edge of the Hollow—where the river split into nothing, cascading into a chasm of shimmering dark.
"The Unwoven begins here," Erielle said. "You'll feel her if you listen. But beware—echoes lie."
Morya gripped the needle, holding it like a compass. She stepped forward.
And with one breath—
She fell.
Not down… but through.
Through forgotten lullabies and broken oaths. Through memories that never belonged to her. Through lifetimes lived sideways.
And then—
She heard it.
Soft. Fractured. Familiar.
"…Morya…?
…is it really you…?"
The voice of her best friend. Shimmering across silence.
"Nima?"
But the mist around her split—and multiple faces of Nima appeared. Each shaped differently. Each wearing a version of pain.
One with eyes of fire, weeping blood.
One silent, her mouth sewn shut.
One reaching out… with threads unraveling from her fingertips.
All of them whispering the same thing:
"Find the true me… before the Hollow forgets us both."