The Whispering Loom

A Tapestry of Forgotten Songs

In the village of Threadhaven, where the hills bloomed with heather and the air hummed with secrets, there stood an ancient loom. It was no ordinary machine—its wood was carved with sigils that glowed faintly at dusk, and its threads seemed to shimmer with colors no dye could match. The villagers called it the Starloom, and they believed it wove the fates of those who dared to touch it. But no one had, not in living memory. It sat in the old mill, guarded by dust and whispers.

Elara, a seamstress with ink-stained fingers and a heart full of unsung melodies, had always felt drawn to the loom. As a child, she’d press her ear to the mill’s walls, hearing faint songs—lullabies, laments, and chants of joy—that no one else noticed. Her mother warned her to stay away. “The Starloom sings for a reason,” she’d say. “It’s not for us.” But Elara, now twenty-two, couldn’t resist its call.

Threadhaven was fading. The heather wilted, the wells dried, and the villagers’ laughter grew thin. Elara noticed the Starloom’s songs growing urgent, like a plea. One frostbitten night, when the stars hid behind clouds, she slipped into the mill. The loom towered over her, its threads pulsing with a soft, silver light. She reached out, and the air thrummed.

“Don’t,” a voice hissed. Elara froze. An old woman stood in the shadows, her eyes like polished amber. “The Starloom demands a price.”

“Who are you?” Elara asked, her voice steady despite the chill.

“The last Weaver,” the woman said. “I wove my song into the loom long ago. It holds Threadhaven together, but the threads are fraying. Someone must weave again.”

Elara’s heart raced. “Why me?”

“You hear it,” the Weaver said. “The loom chooses those who listen.”

Elara looked at the threads, shimmering like liquid starlight. She thought of her village—its crumbling roofs, its silent children. “What do I weave?” she asked.

“Your truth,” the Weaver said. “Your song. But beware—it will take all you are.”

Elara hesitated. She was no hero, just a seamstress who stitched patches and dreamed of songs she could never write. But the loom’s hum was a melody she knew, a piece of her soul she’d never named. She sat at the loom, her fingers trembling, and began to weave.

The threads burned her skin, each one a memory. Her first love, a boy who left for the sea, his laugh fading in the waves. Her mother’s hands, rough from years of mending. The nights she’d sung to herself, alone, when the world felt too heavy. Each thread pulled a piece of her—her joy, her grief, her hope—into the tapestry. The loom sang back, its notes weaving into a song that filled the mill with light.

Hours passed, or maybe years. Elara wove her childhood dreams, her fears of being forgotten, her love for Threadhaven’s crooked streets. The tapestry grew, vibrant with colors she’d never seen—crimson for courage, indigo for loss, gold for hope. But with each thread, she felt lighter, as if she were unraveling.

The Weaver watched, silent. “Enough,” she said finally. “Or you’ll give too much.”

Elara stopped, gasping. The tapestry was unfinished, but it glowed, alive with her song. The mill shook, and outside, the heather bloomed again, vivid purple under a dawning sky. The wells bubbled, and laughter echoed from the village.

“You’ve saved them,” the Weaver said. “For now.”

Elara’s hands were raw, her chest hollow. “What did I give?” she whispered.

“Part of your soul,” the Weaver said. “The Starloom keeps it, ties it to Threadhaven. You’ll feel it always.”

Elara nodded, understanding. She wasn’t whole anymore, but the village was. She left the mill, the loom’s song softer now, a gentle hum in her bones.

Years later, Threadhaven thrived. The heather spread, the wells never dried, and the villagers sang songs they swore came from the stars. Elara, gray-eyed and quiet, stitched clothes that seemed to shimmer. Children followed her, asking about the loom. She’d smile and say, “Some songs are worth singing.”

One night, a girl with bright eyes crept into the mill, drawn by the Starloom’s whisper. Elara, watching from the shadows, didn’t stop her. The loom would choose again, as it always had.

story by shohel rana