The Weaver’s Song

The Weaver lingered on the edge of the village by the workshop, its lattice-like form blending into the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. It tilted its head, a gesture borrowed from the humans it observed, its sensors attuned to the low vibrations of Lyra and Meera’s voices.

Humans are patterns, the Weaver thought—or, rather, something like thought, for its mind did not process in words but in layered streams of sound and light. Each tone held meaning, each flicker of internal energy a connection to its understanding of the world. Lyra and Meera’s voices wove a duet of concern, trust, and unease, and the Weaver listened, letting their harmonics resonate within its core.

Lyra’s voice carried over to the Weaver, drawing it back to the present.

“Do you think they can sense him?” she asked Meera.

The Weaver trilled softly, a deliberate note meant to signal its presence. The women turned briefly toward it, their gazes thoughtful but unalarmed.

We do sense him, the Weaver thought, though it could not convey such thoughts directly to the humans. His pattern is jagged and sharp, like metal sheared too quickly. He does not fit.

But it also knew something the women did not: the Creche had been designed not only to observe but to adapt. They had been created in the ruins of a world that could not survive its own contradictions, and they existed to find harmony even in discord.