The Light of Small Things

The child darted back to the huddled group of adults, the orb clutched tightly in both hands. It gleamed, scattering fractured rainbows across their faces as the child held it aloft.

“Look what it made for me!”

The adults, wary and watchful, exchanged uneasy glances. Most hesitated to approach the Weaver’s constructs, their movements slowed by the weight of old fears. The machines had never struck first—but that didn’t erase the accidents, the missteps, or the rogue constructs that had turned on their makers.

For the humans, trust came hard. They carried the ghosts of their own violence against creation and bore the scars of a world where even progress had sharp edges.

One woman finally stepped forward, her shoulders squared against her doubt. She knelt before the child, brushing away a lock of matted hair from the small, eager face.

“Let me see, Mina.”

Mina hesitated for only a moment before relinquishing the orb. It was warm in the woman’s hands, the faintest hum of energy pulsing beneath its surface. Her reflection stared back at her, distorted by the curved glass.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice soft with wonder. “Why did it give this to you?”

Mina shrugged, her tone matter-of-fact. “I asked what it was making. It didn’t say anything, just… made this.”

The woman turned the orb over in her hands, catching the fractured light that danced within. To her, it seemed impossibly delicate, yet she felt its surprising weight—a solidity that belied its fragile appearance.

“It’s not just a gift,” she said after a moment. “It’s a lesson.”

The others leaned closer, their fear gradually melting into quiet curiosity.

“What lesson?” one of them asked.

The woman stood, holding the orb aloft. “That nothing is truly lost. Not if we’re willing to see what it could become.”

Mina’s eyes sparkled as she watched the adults pass the orb between them. It wasn’t just an object anymore—it was a story, one that would grow and change with each retelling.