Wirasmi had always known this would happen.
Not because she sought attention—but because attention, once denied long enough, learned to hunt.
---
The first post appeared on a small local forum.
No names.
No accusations.
Just a photograph.
A pair of hands holding a jacket mid-repair, the fabric unnaturally calm, the folds falling as if gravity had softened for it alone.
The caption read:
"This doesn't happen by accident."
---
Within hours, the image spread.
Not viral.
Focused.
People who already felt something missing were the ones who shared it. Designers. Craftspeople. Customers who still wore old Oneiro pieces like talismans.
Someone tagged a location.
Someone else recognized the work.
By evening, Wirasmi's workshop name—one she had never advertised—began to circulate.
---
She felt it before she saw it.
The hum sharpened, no longer diffuse.
Directional.
"They're looking at you," she whispered to the thread.
It did not retreat.
It steadied.
---
The next day, a journalist arrived.
Not aggressive. Not sensational.
Just curious.
"I'm not here to expose you," she said, notebook closed. "I'm here because nothing else explains what I've been feeling."
Wirasmi hesitated.
Then poured tea.
---
The article did not mention the thread.
It didn't need to.
It spoke of a woman who repaired clothes in silence and sent people away feeling whole. It described garments that didn't perform, didn't impress—
They settled.
The headline read:
"The Seamstress Who Refuses to Scale."
---
The response was immediate.
Some called it romantic nonsense.
Others called it irresponsible.
A few called it dangerous.
The Null Circle took note.
"She's become a node," one member said. "A single point of failure."
"No," another replied. "A symbol."
Symbols were harder to erase.
---
Ace stood across the street from the workshop that night, watching people come and go.
"You warned me this would cost something," Wirasmi said quietly when he joined her inside.
Ace nodded. "Visibility always does."
"Will it cost the thread?"
Ace looked at the fabric resting between them.
"No," he said. "It will cost you."
She smiled faintly. "I think I knew."
---
Danindra arrived later, uneasy.
"They're debating whether you're ethical or reckless," he said.
Wirasmi shrugged. "That's their problem."
"But it puts pressure on you."
She met his gaze.
"Pressure doesn't break what isn't trying to prove itself."
---
That night, GarudaCity shifted again.
Not toward silence.
Toward choice.
Some people turned away, uncomfortable with what couldn't be explained.
Others leaned in—not to extract, but to understand.
The hum adapted.
---
The Null Circle drafted a second report.
This one sharper.
"Individual Concentration Risk in Non-Scalable Resonance Systems."
Translation: remove the person, and the problem resolves itself.
Ace read it and closed his eyes.
"They're going to force a confrontation," he said.
Wirasmi touched the fabric, calm.
"Then they'll have to look at me," she said.
"And decide what scares them more."
---
In the quiet after midnight, the thread glowed—not brighter than before.
But clearer.
As if accepting that invisibility was no longer possible.
And that being seen—
Was a cost it was now willing to bear.