Entry
The Loom clenched today. I recognized the sound—it’s the same one thread makes when pulled without listening. The men stared at dials; I set my palm on the Engine and felt the room holding its breath.
We went to the Lantern Bar. Not to hide—just to breathe where the light knows our names.
Dexter calls it a cooling cycle. I call it taking the stitch out before the fabric puckers. I poured a Polychrome Paradox and it remembered to forgive the color it had been a minute ago. Reggie sipped his Velvet Circuit and unknotted an entire paragraph in silence. I put a hibiscus behind my ear. Missed twice. Third time stayed—like a decision agreeing with itself.
Textures of Recovery
- Cardigan with palm leaves = portable shade.
- Bamboo under the glass = patient spine.
- Lantern silk = sunset that doesn’t mind being indoors.
- Rain on the roof = applause from the outside world.
We spoke in small voices around the large worry. Dexter told the next weave like a bedtime story: fewer strands, gentler curves. I wiped rings from the bar as if polishing away the shame of trying too hard. The Engine brightened and dimmed with our breathing, which felt like a kindness you don’t have to earn.
When we returned to the bench, the Loom behaved as if someone had apologized to it. Maybe we had. Maybe that’s what rest is—an apology to your own hands.
Postscript
In the morning, petals had left faint dye on the console. Dexter called it “tincture contamination.” I told him it was proof color survived the night. He didn’t erase it.