Erian dreamed of branches weaving themselves, of leaves folding into perfect shapes, of baskets drifting along a river.
He woke with that image lingering in his mind, and for an instant he didn't know if it had only been a dream or a memory from childhood, when he used to watch his mother patiently braid fibers.
When Erian lost his sight, he began making his own baskets. He learned to recognize each fiber by touch, to weave them patiently into firm plaits.
It was one of the few activities he could do without depending on others, and he sold them at the market for a few coins. Sometimes no one bought them, but he kept making them, because working with his hands made him feel useful, part of the world.
He lay there for a while, thinking.
