The thread led her to a place she thought she'd never return to.
Not after what had happened there.
The old St. Wren District lay half-abandoned—rows of crumbling buildings with windows like blind eyes and walls marked by weather and fire. But it wasn't the decay that made Eliara uneasy. It was the stillness. Like something had breathed here recently, and now everything held its breath in fear.
She followed the glowing strand as it wound around a lamppost, down cracked sidewalks, through a rusted chain-link fence half-swallowed by ivy. Her pendant pulsed with heat against her chest, guiding her forward.
Kera.
The girl's name echoed in her mind like a half-remembered song.
The thread ended at a house—a single-story thing with broken gutters, peeling paint, and a front door hanging slightly ajar. It was silent, but Eliara felt it: the Weave was bruised here. Something had pressed too hard against the edges of reality.
She stepped onto the porch, her boots creaking on rotted wood. One more breath—and she pushed the door open.
The smell hit her first. Not rot. Not dust. But loss.
Memories thick in the air, clinging to her skin like wet fabric.
"Hello?" she called softly. "Is anyone here?"
No answer.
She moved through the living room, stepping over scattered toys and a wilted plant. On the far wall, photos were hung in neat rows—but every single frame held a blank, sun-faded square. Like someone had cut out the people who used to exist there.
No. Not someone.
Something.
Her gaze fell to the floor—and froze.
A thread. This one black. Twisted, frayed, seeping shadows into the wood.
She knelt, reaching toward it. It vibrated violently as she drew close, then snapped back into the wall like it had never been there. Her hand tingled, as if her fingers had brushed static.
This wasn't a normal tear in the Weave.
This was something deeper. Older.
She rose quickly and turned to leave—but the doorway behind her wasn't there anymore.
It had vanished.
The living room was now a hallway—long, narrow, with doors on either side and a pulsing red thread running down the center like a spine. The wallpaper shifted patterns when she looked too long. The shadows moved independently of the light.
This wasn't the real house anymore.
She was inside a memory.
A constructed space within the Weave—but whose?
"Eliara."
She turned fast. Behind her stood a girl, no older than ten, with ash-blonde hair and eyes far too hollow for someone that young.
Kera.
But her mouth wasn't moving. The voice hadn't come from her lips—it had come from everywhere.
"You're not supposed to be here," the voice said again.
Kera's body tilted its head, glitching slightly. "You'll break it."
Eliara's breath stilled. "I came to help you. I remember you. Do you remember me?"
Kera blinked slowly. "I remember… before. The sky was softer. The wind sang. I used to… laugh."
The lights overhead began to flicker.
Kera reached toward her own chest—and pulled a thread from beneath her skin.
It was black. Vibrating. Alive.
Eliara's heart pounded. "Who gave you that?"
Kera's head tilted again. Her voice deepened. Changed.
"We don't weave alone anymore."
The walls cracked.
Eliara turned and ran, the hallway warping around her, stretching too long, too narrow. Doors slammed shut before she reached them. The thread beneath her feet snapped and curled up around her ankles like grasping vines.
"We don't weave alone anymore…" the voice echoed, louder now, hundreds of whispers behind it.
And then—she fell.
Not through the floor. Through memory. Through reality.
She landed hard on her side on a cold surface. Concrete. Breathing fast, she blinked against harsh fluorescent light.
The train station.
Rowen's voice cut through the fog in her head. "Eliara! Stay still—don't move—"
Hands gripped her shoulders, and she fought them until she realized it was him. She let herself sag into his arms, the burn in her lungs finally easing.
"What… happened?" she gasped.
"You vanished," Rowen said, voice tight. "The thread just yanked you out of range—I tracked the pendant's flare. You've been gone three hours."
Eliara struggled to sit up. "It was her. The girl—Kera. But not just her. There's something else. Something inside her. It spoke through her. Threads like I've never seen—black, decaying. Like… corrupted."
Rowen's eyes darkened. "We've seen three more Weavers like her."
Eliara froze. "What?"
He nodded. "All in different countries. Prague. Johannesburg. Seattle. Young. Untaught. But somehow… too powerful."
"Were they… like Kera?"
Rowen hesitated. "Not at first. But each one eventually produced black threads. We think something is waking inside them. Or maybe using them."
Eliara pushed to her feet. Her legs shook, but she held steady. "This isn't just breaches reopening. This is new. Intelligent. Coordinated."
Rowen pulled a folded photo from his coat. "This is the girl from Prague."
Eliara unfolded it—and nearly dropped it.
The girl's smile was radiant. But behind her, faint in the shadows—a figure made of threads. Watching.
Same as the one she'd seen in the tunnel.
"We thought the Whisperer was the last," Rowen said. "But what if they were just a voice in a chorus?"
Eliara stared down at the image, her blood turning cold.
"Then we're not facing a broken Weave anymore," she whispered.
"We're facing a warped one."
Later, in Rowen's hidden quarters beneath the metro line, Eliara stood in front of a glass board, drawing with red thread. She'd mapped Kera's location, the points of recent memory vanishings, the known Weavers. Lines crisscrossed like spiderwebs. Patterns emerged.
They were connected.
"These aren't just accidents," she said. "These black-thread events—they form a spiral. Outward from one central point."
Rowen looked over her shoulder. "Where's the center?"
Eliara's hand trembled slightly as she circled the location.
Barrow Hill Orphanage. Closed in 1953. Demolished.
"Another forgotten place," she m