It happened in autumn. The sky turned the color of a bruise, and the fishing boats were still at sea. The men would not make it back before the squall hit. Alamelissa stood at the edge of the cliffs, her dark hair whipping like frayed rope. She did not pray. Instead, she began to hum—a low, sticky sound, sweet as comb dripping with nectar. Her mother had taught her that sound before vanishing into the fog three years prior.
She took it. And for the first time, she did not weave the moment. She simply lived it. alamelissa
Beside her, Caelum picked a wildflower. He was solid now, real, with cheeks flushed by the rising sun. He handed her the flower and smiled. It happened in autumn
One by one, her memories became threads in the loom. And as each thread left her, she forgot. She forgot the taste of honey. She forgot the smell of rain on dry earth. She forgot her mother’s face. Alamelissa stood at the edge of the cliffs,
She was eleven the first time she unraveled a storm.
She wove these into tapestries that showed the truth of things.