The forest was older than any map could name—twisted oaks tangled with rusted metal, roots gripping forgotten circuitry. The trio stood at its edge, staring at the exact sketch Amaira had drawn hours ago. The path lay ahead, lined with moss-covered clocks ticking at random intervals.
Tylor exhaled slowly. "It's like time's been buried here."
Kayla adjusted her backpack, gripping the journal close. "Or stitched in."
They stepped into the woods.
Every footstep echoed too long, like walking through a stretched-out second. Shadows moved without light. A crow blinked overhead—once, then vanished, like it had been erased mid-frame.
Amaira walked a few paces ahead, pausing at a crooked sign half-swallowed by ivy. The paint had long peeled, but the carved words still showed faintly:
"THREADPOINT."
As they moved deeper, the clocks grew stranger—some melted into trees, others suspended in the air. One hung from a spider's web, ticking backward.
Tylor touched a bark-embedded pocketwatch. It played a memory instead of chimes.
Amaira's voice.
Young. Scared. Calling out in the past: "Tylor? Don't forget me."
He recoiled. "These aren't just clocks… they're memory anchors."
Kayla nodded, eyes scanning. "The Weaver's weaving isn't just over time—it's over who we were."
They reached the cabin.
Tilted sideways, made of wood, copper, and glass. Its gears clicked softly, windows flickering with dim light. The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the room was impossibly larger than its outside.
A loom stood at its center—massive, ancient, threads stretching into darkness above. Threads glowed faintly—each pulsing with a name: Tylor. Amaira. Kayla. Elias. Lila. Daniel.
One thread was fraying—Amaira's.
She stepped forward, mesmerized. "Why is mine—"
A voice cut the silence.
"You were never meant to survive the first fracture."
They turned.
At the far end, shrouded in backlight, stood a tall figure cloaked in fabric that shimmered like static and stars. No face. Only the impression of one stitched into the hood.
The Weaver.
"You—" Tylor started.
The Weaver raised a finger, silencing him without sound.
"I have preserved what your father disrupted. Your mother's death, the Chronarch's fall… anomalies. You are not broken threads—you are knots."
Kayla held up the journal. "Then what do you want?"
"To correct the knot," the Weaver replied. "One of you must be undone."
The loom behind him pulsed—one thread darkening.
Amaira gasped.
It was hers.
"No—!" Tylor stepped forward, shielding her.
The Weaver tilted his head. "You seek the truth about your father. Why he took her. You'll find it where his thread began to fray."
The cabin flickered.
In its place now stood a cold, sterile room—white walls, medical lights. A figure stood in the distance, familiar in posture.
Daniel. Their father. But younger. Paler. And holding something in his arms.
A red balloon… and baby Amaira.
Tylor's breath caught. "Is this memory? Or manipulation?"
The Weaver answered softly.
"What's the difference, when your soul remembers both?"
The cabin returned. The loom spun faster. A choice hung in the air.
Undo a knot… or pull another.
And the ticking resumed—louder now. Measured. Intentional.
A countdown had begun.