Even the Loom drifted aimlessly.
It followed no arc, traced no pattern.
Its threads were loose, not in disorder, but in freedom.
Like hair unbraided on a resting day.
It hovered above shelters and pathways, letting its presence be known but not asserted. It felt… content.
Like a river that no longer needed to rush.
Like a breath that didn't need to prove it was life.
At midday, someone built a table.
They didn't call anyone.
They didn't assign tasks.
They simply began to set food—fruit gathered from Root-Bearing Trees, loaves from Shelter-for-All, water drawn from the stream of echoes.
One by one, others joined.
None to serve.
None to lead.
Only to be together.
They ate in laughter, in quiet, in hums of recognition. Some spoke. Some didn't.
But all belonged.
The table had no head.
And yet no one was forgotten.
By nightfall, torches were lit—not to guide, but to share warmth.
A Refrain began to dance beneath one.
Another joined.
And another.
