It's silent here — but not empty.
Here everything is... tense.
A place without sky.
Without wind.
Without time.
Just a stretch of frozen mist.
And... a voice.
"Why is it starting again?"
she sighed, weary.
Everything had been tied.
The threads were taut,
tightly drawn,
and locked in place.
But in the end, nothing holds forever. It seems that,
Even stillness eventually gives way.
Humans assume that they weave their own lives.
But they merely dance on strings they do not control.
On intersections fixed by others,
in a web woven long before them.
Each thread marks a direction.
Together, they form paths stitched into the fabric of the world.
Some threads bind.
Others mislead.
Some tether people to one another.
And others pull... until they snap.
"They cannot see it, you say?"
The Voice smiles, faintly mocking.
"It is True."
"They feel nothing either?"
She tilts her head, thinking.
"Not exactly.
They feel it.
When the tension loosens.
When a vibration runs through the air.
When a thread begins to fray,
far from them, in the folds of a city."
"You... disagree?"
A long silence falls.
The Voice seems displeased, almost bored.
"These little things have simply forgotten
that their fate is already woven into the tapestry of the world."
"How arrogant."
"They know, you say?"
The Voice pauses, as if listening to something else,
then lets out a small, mildly amused laugh.
"...Hah."
"Really?"
"Is that what you think?"
"...Interesting."
After a moment:
"A thread moved, you say?"
The Voice halts, intrigued.
"I see..."
A thread...
has found an anchor point.
Not a breach, yet
but a motion,
almost imperceptible in the weave of this world.
"You know what this means,
don't you?"
When a thread begins to pull.
One is all it takes.
And everything that was stitched together
will start to unravel.