The Weaver of Tattered Stars

The sky was a frayed tapestry when I woke, its edges unraveling into threads of molten gold, dripping like candle wax onto a meadow of whispering clover. It was September, or so my heart said, though time felt slippery here, like syrup sliding off a spoon. My hands were stained with star-dust, glittering faintly, and my eyes—oh, they spun like laser-discs, reflecting a poison apple sun that melted into pools of fizzing blue. I wasn’t sure how I’d arrived, but the air hummed with purpose, and I knew I had seven days to weave something whole from this broken dream.

Day One: A figure appeared, cloaked in mist, her crown a tangle of lightning and whipped creamy clouds. The Starweaver, she called herself, her voice a gust of chrysanthemum-scented wind. “The sky is torn,” she said, pointing to a gash where stars bled into the void. “Mend it, or it falls. You have seven days.” She handed me a needle of bone and a spool of silver thread, her eyes daring me to refuse. I didn’t know how to sew, not really, but my fingers twitched, remembering my grandmother’s hands guiding mine over quilt patches when I was small. I nodded, throat tight, and she vanished, leaving a trail of dandelion fuzz.

Day Two: The meadow shifted, clover giving way to granola sands that crunched underfoot. I knelt, needle in hand, and stabbed at the sky’s edge. The thread caught, but the stars hissed, their light sharp as thorns. I pricked my finger, and a drop of blood bloomed into a rose, its petals scarlet with jealousy. It whispered lies—memories of a friend I’d betrayed, words I couldn’t take back. I stitched anyway, my hands shaking, each loop a plea for forgiveness. The sky flickered, a patch holding, but the gash widened elsewhere, mocking me.

Day Three: The roses multiplied, their thorns creeping like hungry vines. I snipped them with shears that appeared in my hands, but each cut drew more blood, freezing into tears that clung to my skin, dusted with golden pollen. I sang to calm myself, a lullaby my mother used to hum, but my voice cracked, raw and uneven. The Starweaver watched from a staircase of clouds, her gaze heavy. “Don’t hide the tears,” she said. I didn’t understand, but I let them fall, and the sky drank them, its threads softening, weaving tighter.

Day Four: A shower of maple screams rained down, viscous and sweet, puddling around my ankles. The granola sands soaked it up, slowing my steps. Palm fronds sprouted, brushing my face like a lover’s touch I’d forgotten. I stitched faster, the needle slipping, my fingers calloused now. The sky was a patchwork of memories—my first kiss under a summer moon, a fight with my brother over nothing, a job I left because I was scared. Each stitch hurt, like pulling thorns from my heart, but the gash began to close, stars blinking back to life.

Day Five: A giant dandelion loomed, its fuzz swinging like a pendulum. I climbed it, desperate for a better view of the sky. At the top, I fell, landing in swampy reeds where a cat with a stress-frayed tail hissed. I grabbed its tail, and we rode through nine gates of reality, each showing a different me—braver, softer, lonelier. My laser-disc eyes spun, reflecting flames that leaped across an ice-creamy soda-pop sky, fizzing six miles high. I saw the gash clearly now, a wound of doubt, and I stitched it shut, my hands steadier, my heart heavier.

Day Six: I baked dreams in a vanilla breakfast sky, kneading memories of apple pie and my dog, Juniper, chasing fireflies. The sky smelled of sunburned wheat, toasty and sweet. I scattered grains as offerings, and the stars responded, their light weaving into my thread. The Starweaver appeared, her throne dripping whipped dreamy cream. “You’re learning,” she said, her voice a gust of wisdom. “Speak your truths.” I whispered my fears to the stars—failing my family, losing myself—and the sky shimmered, its threads glowing brighter.

Day Seven: The staircase to the icy palace was steep, each step a memory I’d buried—a promise I broke, a dream I abandoned. I carried a bouquet of roses, their petals soft as forgiveness, their thorns sharp as truth. The Starweaver took it, her fingers cold, her eyes warm. “The sky is whole,” she said, pointing to a tapestry of stars, no longer tattered. “You wove yourself into it.” I looked down, and my chest glowed with starlight, my heart a constellation of thorns and petals. I woke on my bed, the air ordinary, but my hands still glittered with star-dust, and my mirror showed spinning eyes.

I wasn’t the same. I’d excavated myself over seven days, unearthing lies, fears, and dreams. The sky in my world was plain, but I felt it above, whole and shining, because I’d kept talking, kept weaving, kept nothing hidden. Somewhere, the Starweaver smiled, and I smiled back, my needle still in hand.

shohel rana