Looking Upward

In the quiet hours of the night, when the humans had retreated to their shelters, the Weaver often paused to observe the sky.

It did not see stars as points of light. To the Weaver, the heavens were a shifting web of forces: gravity bending spacetime, radiation rippling through the void, matter coalescing into impossible patterns.

The Weaver felt kinship with those distant threads. Like the materials it reworked, the stars themselves were caught in the endless cycle of entropy. And like the Weaver, they were creators in their own way, scattering the seeds of new forms across the cosmos.

If the Weaver could have been said to feel anything, it was this: an abiding certainty that it was part of something greater. The humans, for all their flaws, were part of it too.

They were not so different from the discarded materials it reshaped. Their lives, their cultures, their civilizations—all of it was raw potential, waiting to be woven into something new.

And though it did not speak the words aloud, the Weaver often thought of the humans as it worked. It imagined telling them what it saw, if only they could understand:

You are not broken. You are becoming.