Matthew had once prided himself on discipline. Years of sleepless nights, coffee-stained notebooks, and long lectures had hardened his mind against fatigue. His body may have weakened, but his mind had always been sharp.
Now, his mind was still his own—razor sharp, restless, searching—but his body… was a prison.
He was an infant.
The first days were a blur of helplessness. Hunger gnawed at him, but he had no words, no hands steady enough to feed himself. His cries felt humiliating, yet they brought the warmth of milk and the gentle rocking of the woman who held him. He hated the weakness but clung to her heartbeat. For all his knowledge, survival began here, in the cradle of her arms.
His ears strained to catch words, but the sounds around him were crude and thick, syllables bent and rolled in unfamiliar patterns. A new tongue. A new world. He committed each tone to memory, determined that even if his body betrayed him, his mind would not.
Nights were the worst. The quiet pressed too close. He would close his newborn eyes and hear Eliza's last words echoing—You're unraveling yourself—until the ache in his chest threatened to split him apart. He would've given anything to tell her he wasn't unraveling anymore. He was beginning.
And yet, regret gnawed. I left her behind. She thinks I died chasing ghosts.
He tried not to dwell on it, but memory is cruel. In the dark, the taste of failure returned.
---
On the third night, something changed.
The System stirred, unbidden.
[Thread Perception: Passive ability initializing.]
At first, it was subtle. A shimmer behind his eyelids, like strands of light burned faintly on the edges of vision. Then, as his newborn body settled into shallow breaths, the veil tore wider.
Threads.
They stretched across the hut—thin, glowing filaments woven into every object. The fire crackling in the hearth burned with red-orange strands that twisted and danced. The wooden walls pulsed with brown lines, interwoven like bark. Even the woman's body was laced with a constellation of threads, glowing soft white, her heart a knot of golden rhythm.
Matthew gasped—or gurgled. To him, it was revelation. The tapestry was here too. He hadn't been mad. His vision wasn't a curse. This was the truth of existence.
But it was overwhelming. Each strand hummed with meaning his newborn brain wasn't built to carry. The air trembled with vibrations, the floor groaned under woven patterns of age and use. His tiny body couldn't hold it all.
Pain lanced through him.
The System pulsed.
[Warning: Authority insufficient for full perception. Thread overload detected.]
[Restriction enforced: Limiting sensory input.]
The brilliance dimmed, narrowing until only faint traces lingered—the golden thread of his mother's heartbeat, the red flicker of fire, the gray weave of the hut's foundation. Still, tears rolled down his cheeks from the intensity.
So this is what I chased my whole life, he thought weakly. This is what no one believed in.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel mocked. He felt vindicated.
---
Days passed. Matthew began testing the boundaries of his infant body. Each time the System whispered its rules into his mind.
[Thread Collection unavailable. Host must establish physical foundation.]
[Thread Fusion unavailable. Authority locked.]
Yet small insights trickled in. When he reached toward the hearth fire, he could feel the threads shift faintly, as though acknowledging him. When he brushed his fingers against the wooden cradle, the threads shivered. It was instinct, not skill. Like plucking strings he didn't yet know how to tune.
And each time, the System reminded him:
[Understanding precedes weaving. Comprehension before control.]
He learned patience. He watched. He memorized. He endured.
---
By the second week, he began to notice more of the world outside his hut. When his mother carried him to the village square, Matthew saw the threads of dozens of people. Each one burned differently—some steady, some frayed, some taut as though stretched by unseen burdens. His Weaver's sight was limited, but still it showed him hints of their lives.
The village itself seemed small, no more than fifty huts. A stone well at its center glowed with blue threads of water deep below the earth. Smoke rose from chimneys, carried upward by silver-gray lines of air. Beyond the huts lay forest, thick with tangled green strands, alive and restless.
And above all… the sky.
When Matthew tilted his tiny head back, his breath caught. The heavens here weren't like Earth's. Stars burned too close, like lanterns hung just beyond reach, each one tied with threads of light that stretched across the firmament. Constellations shifted subtly, alive rather than fixed. The sky itself was a loom, vast and eternal.
The sight nearly unraveled him.
[Thread Perception limited. Authority insufficient.]
The System dimmed his vision again, and he whimpered in frustration. But inside, a fire grew. He had always dreamed the universe was a tapestry. Now he knew.
---
Not everything was wonder.
Nights still brought fear. He couldn't protect himself. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even tell his mother who he was. Every cry was a reminder of weakness. Every silence, a reminder of how fragile this second chance was.
Worse, sometimes he felt threads he couldn't explain. Black filaments drifting at the edge of sight. They brushed against the village walls, faint and corrosive, like rot hidden beneath fabric. Each time they appeared, animals grew restless, dogs barked, and his mother whispered hurried prayers. The villagers seemed to sense it too, though they had no Weaver's sight.
Matthew shivered in his cradle, tiny fists clenched.
Threads of decay. They're here too.
The System confirmed nothing. No answers, only silence. Perhaps his Authority was too low. Perhaps some truths couldn't yet be woven.
But he remembered failure. He remembered regret. He remembered a life where no one believed him until it was too late.
Not this time.
He gurgled softly, staring at the flickering ceiling shadows. This time, I'll unravel nothing. I'll weave everything.
The night wind howled. The black threads pulsed faintly in the distance. And within his fragile chest, Matthew Greene—now Matthew Weaver—swore silently that this second life would not be wasted.
For the first time, the System whispered unprompted:
[Resolution detected. Authority resonance increased.]
[Thread Collection unlocked: Minor threads.]
The words rang like prophecy, a loom creaking to life. Matthew's eyes widened. His first step.
In the cradle of a small hut, under a living sky, the first Weaver clenched his tiny hands.
And the tapestry of destiny trembled.