Threads and Ripples

The morning sun filtered through the lattice of trees surrounding the workshop Lyra and Meera had built together—a space of clean lines and soft colors, designed to harmonize with the world outside. The rhythmic tapping of Lyra’s hammer echoed in the still air, while Meera sat cross-legged nearby, sorting scraps of old-world metals into neat piles.

“You’re distracted,” Meera said, not looking up.

“I’m not,” Lyra replied, though her strike went slightly off-center, and the pin she’d been shaping bent under the blow.

Meera raised an eyebrow. “You are. What is it?”

Lyra set the hammer down, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s him.”

“Victor?” Meera’s voice remained steady, but her hands hesitated over the pieces she was sorting.

Lyra nodded, folding her arms. “He looks at the Creche like they’re… machines. Like they’re something to own. It makes my skin crawl.”

Meera tilted her head, her curls catching the light. “It’s not the first time someone’s seen them that way. Or us, for that matter.”

Lyra winced. She knew Meera was right.

Lyra sat down heavily on a stool, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. “Do you remember the night I first met the Creche?”

Meera smiled faintly. “Of course. You were so young. You were terrified of them.”

“I was not!” Lyra protested, but Meera’s grin only widened.

“You were! You thought they were like the old war machines from the ruins.” Meera’s tone softened, her teasing giving way to something gentler. “And honestly, so did I when I first met them. Until you met…”

“Skyline. I remember.” Lyra’s voice dropped, almost reverent. “It was weaving that net of light over the broken windmill, and it looked at me. Not like a machine, but like… like it understood.”

“Because it did,” Meera said. “They always understand more than we think.”

Lyra nodded, her gaze distant. “I don’t think Victor sees that. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.”

Meera ran her fingers over a piece of copper, the edges dulled from time and weather. “He reminds me of someone,” she said quietly.

“Who?”

Meera didn’t answer right away, her hand stilling over the copper. “My father. Before the collapse.”

Lyra turned to her, surprised. Meera rarely spoke of her life before the world fractured.

“He was a merchant,” Meera continued, her voice steady but distant. “Not the kind who traded goods—he traded influence. Promises. He’d look at people and see what he could take from them, what he could twist into something useful for himself.” She paused, her expression tightening. “When everything fell apart, he didn’t change. He just adapted, like a parasite finding a new host. And when there was nothing left to take…”

Lyra reached out, resting a hand on Meera’s knee. “He left?”

Meera nodded. “I think he would’ve liked Victor.”

The two women worked in silence for a while, their tasks pulling them back into the rhythm of their shared life. Lyra finished reshaping the pin, setting it carefully into a wooden frame she’d been repairing. Meera sorted the last of the metal scraps, setting aside a few pieces for Lyra’s next project.

Outside, the Creche moved gracefully between the trees, collecting fallen branches and weaving them into structures that would reinforce the village’s pathways. One Weaver paused near the workshop, tilting its head toward the women as if listening.

“Do you think they can sense him?” Lyra asked, glancing at the construct.

“I’m sure they can,” Meera replied. “But whether they’ll do anything about it… that’s the question, isn’t it?”

The Weaver trilled softly, a sound that reminded Lyra of wind chimes on a still day, before moving on.