The Drifting Realm was never still.
Sometimes, when Matthew lay awake at night, he could feel the land itself sigh, as if the ground were only pretending to be solid. The villagers of Fragment 172 had grown used to it—their homes built from interlocked wood and stone, braced to withstand the subtle sways. To them, the drifting sky above was nothing more than a canvas of stars.
But Matthew saw the threads. Always.
At six years old, his body was finally steady enough to run with the other children. His mother was relieved—he no longer stumbled like a sickly infant, and the village had begun to welcome him into the rhythm of life. To them, he was just a quiet boy with dark hair and sharp eyes.
To Matthew, every day was a balancing act. Pretend. Blend. Hide.
---
Among the Children
"Come on, slow-legs!" Liora called, sprinting ahead of the group. She was two months older than Matthew and wore her pride like armor. Her braids bounced behind her as she led the other kids toward the wide clearing where they often played.
Bren was next, a broad-shouldered boy already taller than the rest. He hefted a stick like a spear and bellowed, "I'll catch her this time!"
Mira trailed behind, clutching her satchel of pebbles and herbs, her sandals slapping lightly against the dirt. She gave Matthew a shy smile as he kept pace with her.
Matthew didn't answer. He rarely did. Instead, he measured the weave of the ground beneath their feet, noting the faint shimmer of energy where roots tangled underground. Every thread told him something—where it was strong, where it might snap, where danger might lurk.
"Don't stare so much," Liora teased when she noticed his gaze drifting. "You'll trip over your own feet."
The other children laughed. Matthew forced a smile, though his mind whispered equations that no one here would ever understand.
---
The children's game was simple: chase-and-mark. Whoever was tagged had to freeze until freed by a teammate. They called it "hunter's training," though it mostly ended in laughter and dirt-streaked knees.
Matthew was always cautious. Not because he was weak—though his body wasn't as strong as Bren's—but because he had to watch himself. If he pulled at the wrong thread in excitement, he might make a game far too strange.
Still, he found ways to help quietly.
When Bren's stick cracked during a charge, Matthew brushed his fingers over it. A subtle tug at the wood's inner weave, a knot tightened. The stick held together, sturdy enough to last the game.
When Mira tripped and her sandal strap broke, Matthew knelt quickly. A thread here, a twist there—cloth re-bonded without a seam. She blinked in surprise but accepted it without question.
To them, it looked like luck. To him, it was weaving practice in disguise.
And when the wheel of their spinning game refused to turn evenly, Matthew nudged the hidden thread of friction just slightly. The wheel spun smooth, and no one noticed the shimmer of reality correcting itself.
Except Liora. She noticed everything.
She gave him one of her sharp, knowing looks as if to say, I saw that. But she didn't call him out. Not anymore.
-
That evening, as the children sprawled in the grass catching their breath, Bren puffed out his chest. "When I turn ten, I'll awaken beast strength, like my father. I'll crush stone with my bare hands."
Mira shook her head, plucking a white flower. "I want healing. Then no one will have to cry when they're hurt."
Liora smirked, flicking ash from a tiny spark that danced on her fingertip. "Fire. Obviously. Flames that can burn back beasts. My mother says the stars will bless me stronger than anyone else here."
The others oohed in admiration. Matthew stayed silent, staring at the drifting sky. Threads coiled above them, too faint for the others to see—some bright and full, others dark and fraying.
"What about you, Matthew?" Mira asked softly.
He blinked, caught. The truth was unthinkable. I already see the loom itself. I weave while you only hope for blessings.
"I don't know," he lied.
Bren snorted. "Probably book-blessing. Makes you good at staring."
The laughter stung, though Matthew hid it well. His eyes returned to the sky. They played while he saw the unraveling.
--
It was always like this.
He belonged, but only half. He could chase and laugh with them, but every moment he felt the threads beneath the surface. A child's game was never just a game; it was patterns, balances, fragile weaves waiting to snap.
During the midsummer festival, as lanterns floated into the air, Matthew noticed a jagged tear in the drifting sky. No one else gasped. To them, it was nothing but beauty. To him, it was a wound in reality.
He said nothing. His stomach twisted with the same fear he'd carried since Earth: If I tell them what I see, they'll leave me. Or worse, they'll fear me.
--
One afternoon, Mira burst into tears. Her satchel had slipped open, scattering pebbles and treasures across the field. One in particular—a smooth green stone tied with twine—was missing.
"My necklace!" she sobbed. "It was from my brother…"
The other children searched, crawling through grass and dirt. Matthew knelt, fingers brushing the soil. Threads whispered to him: earth shifting, blades bending, weight pressing. He tugged, pulling the weave to show him the stone's path.
There—in the roots.
He slipped it free, dusting it off. "Here."
Mira hugged it to her chest, eyes shining. "Thank you!"
Liora, watching from a distance, narrowed her eyes. She had seen how still he had gone, how deliberate his hand had moved. When Matthew looked up, she smirked—not mocking this time, but sharp, curious.
She knew he was hiding something. And for reasons Matthew couldn't name, she chose not to expose him.
---
A Moment of Almost-Normal
That evening, the children chased fireflies while the adults prepared for the night meal. Bren swung his stick like a hero; Mira clapped in delight; Liora darted like a flame through the tall grass.
Matthew ran with them, breathless, almost laughing. For a brief, fragile moment, he felt normal. Like a boy who belonged.
Yet even as he caught a firefly in his hands, he saw the thread of its tiny life glowing faintly. He let it go quickly, afraid to tug too hard.
--
Later, sitting by himself at the edge of the village, he stared at the drifting constellations above. Threads crossed and tangled endlessly in the sky.
Maybe I'll never be like them, he thought. But if I weave carefully, maybe I can still belong.
The Origin Weaver System stirred within him, faint but present:
[Weaving Progress: Social Bonds – Loom Strength +1]
The notification thrummed softly in his chest, like approval.
Matthew exhaled, watching his breath vanish into the cool air.
"If this realm drifts forever," he whispered, "then I'll weave an anchor of my own."
Somewhere far above, the threads of fate shimmered in response.