Deep beneath the genre-locked foundations of the Citadel of Continuity, where timelines were threaded through the Loom of Logic, the Seamstresses of Sense stitched narrative cause to narrative effect with ruthless precision. Every detail. Every consequence. Every ending earned.
They had never dropped a stitch.
Until tonight.
A single thread unraveled—not yanked, not torn, but chosen. A quiet refusal. A story that simply refused to justify itself.
Hira had walked through.
And the Loom began to weep.
Its threads, once gold and rigid, softened into something fluid—like smoke, like song. Time itself uncoiled from the spindles, no longer linear but layered, recursive, defiant.
One Seamstress tried to patch the breach. Her hands bled logic. She wove fast, faster, too fast—until the tapestry screamed.
The image on the cloth blurred: no hero's journey, no rising action, no third-act twist. Only Hira, standing still, with no lessons learned.
