Echoes of the Forgotten World
Somewhere distant, where once the Loom lay in its holy cradle, there was silence.
But in the silence… a seed hummed.
Not a pattern.
Not a prison.
But potential.
The world had no Watchers any longer.
Only writers.
And the story would never be bound again.
The first murmurs of change came not in fire, nor in storm, but in dreams.
Children on the eastern coastlines began waking up in tears, speaking in tongues their parents had never taught them. There were melodies humming at the back of their throats, songs that belonged to no recognized culture. Some dreamt about cities that weren't on any map, of glass skyscrapers pulsing with veins of light, and skies that wept stars. Others mumbled names not their own.
