With the trenches finished and the rain guided safely away from the village, something subtle changed among them.
The days were still heavy with moisture, the air thick and warm, but fear no longer sat in every breath. Work slowed just enough to allow people to notice one another again—not only as hands and labor, but as voices, stories, and shared presence.
Anna spent more time near the women's shelters, drawn by the steady rhythm of their work. Under a wide overhang where rain could not reach, several women sat close together, their legs folded, fingers moving with practiced certainty. Long strands of fiber—stripped from plants, dried and softened—were twisted, stretched, and bound into narrow bands.
Belts.
Strong enough to carry tools, tie bundles, or support woven packs. Simple, but essential.
One of the older women noticed Anna watching and motioned her closer. Without many words, they placed a half-finished belt in her hands and guided her fingers. Twist, pull, tighten. The movement was slow at first, awkward, but there was patience in their teaching. Mistakes were not corrected sharply—only shown again, gently.
They showed her how they made small batches of fabric too. Short lengths, woven by hand between sticks anchored in the ground. It took time. Days for something that could tear in moments if done poorly. Every thread mattered.
As Anna worked, memory stirred.
She remembered something older than this village, older than herself—a simple frame, upright, where threads could be stretched tight and worked faster, more evenly. Not a complex machine. Nothing fragile. Just wood, tension, and rhythm.
That evening, she sought out Mike.
She drew it in the dirt for him. Two vertical posts. Crossbeams. Weighted threads. Her hands moved quickly as she explained how it could free their fingers, allow longer fabric to be made, stronger belts, wraps, even simple clothing panels.
Mike studied the lines, rubbing his chin. "It can be built," he said finally. "It will take time. But it can be built."
That was enough.
In the following days, as rain tapped steadily on leaves above, the village began to change in quieter ways. Wood was shaped not just for survival, but for craft. Fibers were gathered with intention. The idea of future comfort—warmth, durability, dignity—began to take root.
It was during one of these moments, while Anna sat among the women practicing her weaving, that she felt a presence beside her.
Kehnu had stopped nearby, pretending to adjust a rope, though his attention was clearly elsewhere. He watched her work for a moment before speaking.
"You see things before they exist," he said. Not as praise alone, but as wonder.
Anna looked up, surprised. "I just… remember," she answered softly.
He nodded, then reached into the small pouch at his waist. From it, he pulled a simple necklace—thin fiber cord strung with pale shells, smoothed by the sea. Nothing elaborate. Nothing excessive.
"For you," he said. "You help us stay."
Her cheeks warmed instantly, a color she could not hide. She accepted it carefully, as if it might break between her fingers.
"Thank you," she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
Kehnu smiled, just briefly, then stepped back, giving her space. The necklace rested cool against her skin, carrying the scent of salt and shore.
Around them, the rain continued its steady fall. But beneath the shelter, threads crossed, hands learned, and something stronger than fabric was being woven.
Not just survival.
Connection.
The rain softened to a steady whisper the morning Mike finished the structure.
It stood beneath a broad shelter near the edge of the village, tall and simple, made entirely from wood gathered and shaped by hand. Two strong vertical posts were driven deep into the ground, connected by crossbeams smoothed with stone tools. Smaller pegs lined the sides. At the base, rounded stones were tied to hanging cords to keep tension.
It did not look impressive at first glance.
But it was different from anything the tribe had used before.
When Mike stepped aside, the women approached slowly, curious but cautious. Anna stood nearby, her hands clasped tightly together. She knew what the frame could do, but knowledge alone did not mean acceptance.
Palm threads were brought forward—longer than any they had woven before. Carefully, Anna and the older women began stretching them along the vertical frame, securing them at the top and weighting them at the bottom. The threads fell straight, tight, obedient.
A quiet fell over the shelter.
One woman reached out and ran her fingers along the aligned strands. "They do not twist," she murmured.
Anna picked up a shuttle—nothing more than a smoothed piece of wood—and began to pass the horizontal thread through the vertical ones. Over. Under. Over. Under.
The movement was fluid.
Faster than hand-weaving. Stronger. Even.
Gasps rose as the fabric began to form—wide, consistent, dense. A cloth that did not narrow or weaken with length. Something that could become belts, wraps, carrying slings, even wall coverings against wind and rain.
More people gathered, drawn by the rhythm.
Children sat wide-eyed at the edges. Hunters leaned against posts, watching in silence. Even the elders came, studying the loom with careful, assessing eyes. It was not magic. It was structure. Order imposed gently on chaos.
"This will change much," one elder said finally.
Mike stood a little apart, arms crossed, pretending indifference while pride flickered unmistakably in his eyes. He had built many things for survival—but this was different. This was for continuity.
Anna stepped back and let the women take over. Their hands adapted quickly, learning the new rhythm, adjusting tension, experimenting with tighter and looser patterns. Palm fiber that once fought them now moved smoothly, willingly.
Belts grew longer. Cloth grew wider.
Someone laughed—an unexpected sound, light and surprised.
By evening, the first finished piece was lifted from the loom. Strong. Flexible. Evenly woven. The women passed it from hand to hand, testing it, bending it, pulling hard.
It did not break.
The loom remained standing as the rain returned in full, water running down its wooden frame without harm. It looked like it belonged there, as if the village had been waiting for it all along.
Anna watched from a distance, her shell necklace cool against her skin.
This was more than a tool.
It was proof that they were no longer only reacting to the world.
They were shaping it—thread by thread.