The Shape of the Day

The work of the day pressed on Lyra and Meera. Lyra gathered the cuttings, placing them in neat bundles for composting. Meera moved on to repairing a torn basket, her deft hands weaving new strands into the frame. Their village depended on this kind of work—the simple, manual labor that reminded them of their connection to the earth.

“It’s funny,” Meera said, her tone lighter now. “Victor thinks we do this because we’re stuck in the past. Like the Creche could just grow our food for us or repair our tools if we asked nicely.”

Lyra laughed softly. “He doesn’t get it. The work isn’t a burden. It’s part of what keeps us grounded, connected to the world. If we stop doing it, we lose that connection. And then what?”

Meera nodded. “And then we start thinking like Victor.”

They fell silent again, but this time, the quiet felt companionable.

As dusk settled in, Lyra leaned back, her eyes scanning the horizon. “Do you think we’re ready for what’s coming? Whatever it is?”

Meera hesitated, then set down her tools. “We don’t have a choice, do we? We’ll have to be.”

Lyra tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips. “You sound like one of the Creche.”

Meera grinned. “Maybe they’ve rubbed off on me.”

The two women lingered in the fading light, their laughter breaking the stillness for a moment. But the weight of Victor’s presence, and the threads he was pulling in the village, hung over them like a storm cloud.

For now, they would only keep weaving their own patterns, hoping they were strong enough to hold against whatever came next.