In the village of Elanor's Hollow, they said the loom sang only to those who listened with their soul.
Mira never meant to listen.
She was a seamstress, not a sorceress—just a widow with a daughter to raise and bills to outrun. Her workshop was little more than a crumbling hut behind the spice market, filled with worn threads, secondhand scissors, and memories that clung like cobwebs.
But that changed the day Davina fell ill.
It began with a fever then coughing. The herbalists said it was Ash Veil, a curse that turned breath into smoke. The only known cure is? A prayer-woven cloth made from Heartvine.
Mira had heard of it—mythical, bioluminescent, and dangerous. The last Heartvine grove was rumored to bloom deep within the Rotwood, guarded by things that whispered between the leaves. Only the Nightspinners—dark weavers trained in forbidden threads—dared harvest it.
But Mira had no time for rumors. Or fear.
She waited until dusk, kissed Davina's brow, and wrapped herself in her grandmother's cloak. Then she set off into the woods.
The Rotwood was alive in unnatural ways. Trees didn't sway—they trembled. Mist crawled between roots like pale snakes. Somewhere overhead, a bird cried out, then was silenced mid-note.
She walked until the stars blinked awake, following the map etched in memory—her grandmother's stories told by firelight.
There.
A single vine, coiled around a twisted oak, pulsing with blue light. The Heartvine!
Mira approached reverently, scissors in hand. The vine recoiled, hissed. She paused.
"I won't cut you out of greed," she whispered. "Only out of love".
The vine stilled. A single thread loosened and floated toward her hand.
She plucked it gently.
It shimmered like liquid moonlight.
Back in her shop, Mira dusted off the ancient loom tucked behind a false wall. Her grandmother had called it The Living Loom. It had belonged to the old guild, before the wars, before the Nightspinners betrayed the craft.
She threaded the Heartvine and began to weave.
The loom responded.
With each pass of the shuttle, memories surfaced. Davina's laughter. Her tiny hands grasping Mira's fingers. Her questions at dawn. Her smile when she called Mira "Mama."
Tears blurred Mira's vision. The thread wove them in.
She didn't sleep. Didn't eat. She wove through the night.
And when the cloth was done, it hummed.
A pale blue shawl, soft as breath, warm as love. She wrapped it around Davina and prayed.
By morning, the fever had broken.
Davina's eyes fluttered open. "Mama!"
Mira sobbed. "I'm here."
News traveled faster than fire.
A healing cloth! Woven by a seamstress, not a guilded weaver!
Within days, a procession arrived—guild officials in deep violet robes, followed by Lord Daemir, the king's cousin, a man whose words were honey and heartless all at once.
They inspected the cloth. Prodded Davina. Studied the loom.
Then Lord Daemir spoke. "The use of Heartvine is restricted to certified guild members. Your possession and use is illegal."
Mira's mouth went dry. "But… it saved my daughter."
He smiled without warmth. "And could damn others if used improperly."
He turned to his guards. "Confiscate the loom. Seal the shop."
Davina clung to Mira's skirts. "No!"
A low hum filled the room.
The loom shook. The threads on the shelves vibrated.
Heartvine light spilled from the shawl and rose in twisting patterns across the walls. Glyphs bloomed—protective stitches, prayer markings, legacy codes.
Lord Daemir stepped back. "What is this?"
Mira's voice, quiet but firm: "This loom doesn't obey the guild. It obeys the thread. The thread obeys love."
That night, the shop burned.
Not from within, but by order. The guild's mark was etched in ash on the door: a broken needle.
But the loom—Mira had hidden it in the cellar. Along with her knowledge.
She became legend.
In whispers, villagers spoke of The Weeping Seamstress who wove blessings into cloaks, peace into veils, and hope into baby blankets. They came in secret, bringing cloth and prayers. Mira taught them—not just how to stitch, but how to mean it.
Each stitch, she told them, must hold intention. Protection. Praise.
Davina grew. Strong, curious and kind. She learned to weave beside her mother, her tiny hands steady, her eyes glowing like the Heartvine.
One evening, as the stars began to sing, Davina tugged Mira's sleeve.
"Mama," she asked, "do the threads remember us?"
Mira smiled.
"Yes," she said. "Because we wove them with love."
And in the Rotwood, where mist still danced and shadows still stirred, a single Heartvine leaf unfurled, glowing soft and steady. As if answering a name whispered by thread.