The Thread
I looked at the red point in the darkness of the palm.
It hummed. The same frequency that had passed through my wrist. But it was not the same. It was fuller now. A vibration that had found a home.
A thread.
The word came without my choosing it. Not a ribbon. A thread. Something longer. Something that continued beyond what I could see.
I looked at the darkness around the red point. The figure's palm. The fingers. The wrist. But the thread did not end at the palm. It went somewhere. Into the darkness that made the figure. Into the presence that had always been here.
I felt the pull. Not from the figure. From the thread itself. As if it wanted to be followed. As if it had been waiting for someone who would follow it.
The figure did not move. Did not offer. Did not resist.
It simply held what I needed to find.
I reached out. Toward the thread. A beginning.
My fingers touched the silk.
Cold. The same cold as before. But now I could feel it. Not just the temperature. The length of it. The thread extended backward from my touch, into the palm, into the darkness, into somewhere I could not see.
I did not pull.
I waited.
The thread hummed. The darkness held. The white sand stretched behind me, endless and patient.
And then the figure spoke.
Not in words. In movement.
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