PREVIEW

... ty.

It was waiting.

A cradle.

A breath before the world.

A room with a thousand unopened doors.

And one voice—forgotten by time, unrecorded by page, unclaimed by any lineage—had been there when the first word had not yet dared to be spoken.

That voice never left.

It simply waited for someone to remember that not all beginnings are loud.

The loom had begun to shimmer in patterns that no one could trace.

Not lines. Not knots. ...

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