Chapter 10
Episode 10 kiek Lietuva sena beting senatvė to juoksies ragąna ... Tu losio senatve
The needle pauses, and I look up at the porthole. The Earth hangs there like a blue marble I once rolled between my fingers as a child, before I understood that marbles could break. The dust on my hands has settled into the creases of my palms, drawing lines I did not earn. I fold the linen square and set it aside.
Outside, the mining B site hums its low, constant song. The machines do not sleep; they breathe in lunar regolith and exhale processed ore. I have learned to hear them as a heartbeat, though it is not mine. My heartbeat is the rhythm of the sewing machine, the click and pull of thread through fabric, the small resistance of cloth against my fingers.
I think of the old woman in the village near Kaunas who taught me to stitch. She had hands like dried apple leather, and she laughed when I pricked my finger. Ragana, she called herself, but not with malice. A witch who knew the shape of clouds and the weight of silence. She said that every stitch is a knot between worlds, and that if you sew long enough, you can mend time itself.
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