The world of the Unwoven was unlike anything Morya had ever known.
There was no sky—only threadbare twilight stitched with fragments of forgotten dreams. The ground beneath her feet shifted like old cloth, folding and rippling with every thought, every memory she dared summon.
She held the silver needle tightly, its rune-glow pulsing faintly in her hand. It pointed—like a compass—not to direction, but to truth.
Around her drifted echoes—people, moments, memories—all unraveling. Some reached for her, others cowered, and many simply repeated fragments of lives they no longer owned.
But only one voice mattered.
"Find the true me… before the Hollow forgets us both."
Nima's.
The real Nima.
The needle spun violently as if tugged by an unseen current. Morya followed it through veils of silk, weaving paths between impossible landscapes: a field of clocks with melting faces; a river that ran with lullabies; a forest of trees that whispered names she didn't want to remember.
At last, she reached a clearing stitched together by light and loss.
In its center stood three versions of Nima, unmoving now. The same three from before.
Erielle's warning echoed in her mind:
"Echoes lie."
Morya stepped forward and raised the needle. It began to hum, its point glowing in the presence of the three forms.
One Nima stood tall, regal, her voice calm and unwavering. "I am the Weaver now. I took the Loom. Let me return with you."
Another knelt, crying, repeating, "I didn't mean to die. I didn't mean to die…"
The last one simply watched her, silent, hands behind her back, eyes soft with memory—but no plea, no claim.
Morya's breath caught.
"You," she whispered. "You're not begging. You're not pretending."
The needle pulsed once in her hand—bright and sharp.
She stepped to the third Nima and held it between them.
"Say my name."
The figure stared at her.
Then, in a voice like dusk rain:
"Morya Alen.
My tether to the Hollow.
My threadkeeper.
My friend."
The other two shrieked and burst into static and silk, unraveling into the fog.
The real Nima swayed, her image flickering.
"You shouldn't have come."
Morya grabbed her.
"And you shouldn't have stayed."
"It's not safe."
"Nothing is. But I came anyway."
The needle flared again, and threads spiraled from the air around them, swirling like stars.
"Take it," Morya said, offering the needle. "Reclaim your name. Stitch yourself home."
But Nima hesitated.
"If I leave, something else will take my place. The Hollow must be fed."
Morya gritted her teeth.
"Then I'll stay. Let me be the echo."
Nima's eyes filled with tears.
"You would do that?"
"You already did."
She pressed the needle into Nima's hand.
And this time, Nima sewed. Not fabric. Not memory. But possibility. The air stitched itself into a bridge—of names, promises, flame, and light.
They stepped across it together.
Back in the Hollow, the lantern by the silver tree flared once, then twice.
And when Morya opened her eyes on the riverbank, Nima was beside her—real, breathing, whole.
Their threads entwined.
Two souls rewoven.