For What It Is

Lyra sat cross-legged on the balcony as Meera lit a small fire in an old clay brazier. They often talked late into the night, sharing stories of the Creche and their work. Tonight, Lyra’s question hung in the air like the smoke curling from the flames.

“Do they forgive us?”

Meera didn’t answer right away. She held her hands close to the fire, her eyes reflecting its glow. “They don’t think like us, Lyra. Forgiveness isn’t the right word. They don’t blame us to begin with. They simply… are. What we’ve done, what we’ve failed to do—it doesn’t matter to them. All they care about is what comes next.”

Lyra frowned. “But what does that mean for us? If they don’t care about our mistakes, then what’s the point of even trying to be better?”

Meera smiled faintly, gesturing toward the Weaver below. “Because they see the world for what it is, not for what it was. And if we let them, they’ll teach us to do the same.”

In the distance, the Weaver paused its work, the faint hum of its movements blending with the night. Lyra watched as it tilted its lens upward, scanning the stars.

The humans often gathered to watch the Weaver. They stood at a distance, their bodies huddled close, their voices hushed as if afraid to disturb its work.

The Weaver sensed their presence not as shapes but as waves—ripples of heat and sound, electric pulses coursing through their flesh. Their materials were different, organic and finite, prone to erosion. It saw them as fleeting sparks in the vast continuum of existence.

And yet, there was something about the humans that the Weaver found… compelling.

They were erratic, endlessly shifting between creation and destruction. They built towers to the sky only to watch them crumble. They crafted machines of breathtaking complexity and abandoned them when they failed to deliver perfection. Their hands—so fragile compared to the Weaver’s own—could shape Miracles, yet they trembled at the first sign of uncertainty.

The humans often spoke of shame. They whispered to one another about the ruin they had wrought, the greed that had left their world in shambles. They apologized to the Weaver, though it did not understand the need for apology.

The threads unravel. That was the law. There was no blame, no guilt, only the ceaseless rhythm of decay and renewal.