Chapter 1

Boon caught it before it could tangle with the others on the Loom of Forgotten Threads, clicking her tongue. This one was stubborn—a fragment of a dream that had belonged to a young woman named Lira, now faded to a wisp of warmth and a lingering ache in her chest. Boon had been weaving for three nights, trying to restore the dream that used to comfort Lira before the nightmares took over. But one piece was missing, a silver strand of joy that she could not find in the loose threads floating in the air of her cottage.

She set down her shuttle and pressed her fingers to her temples. The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the Loom’s own light—a pale amber that pulsed gently with each woven knot. The smell of dried lavender and old parchment filled the air, making it feel like a sanctuary. But there was no peace in Boon’s mind. The dream was incomplete, and Lira would wake soon. Boon could feel the night slipping away.

Her own memories whispered at the edges of her consciousness, offering themselves up. She could pull a strand of joy from her own past—a child’s laughter, a sunny afternoon, a moment of pure contentment—and weave it into the hole. But every thread she gave cost her a piece of her own story. She had given many over the years, and her own childhood was now mostly a blur of shadows. She did not want to lose more.

Yet the alternative was to let Lira face another night of terror without the anchor of her good dream. Boon sighed, her fingers hovering over the Loom. The missing strand glowed faintly, a gap in the tapestry that hummed with need.

She made her choice.

Boon reached into the core of her own being, where the brightest memories were stored. She found one: her seventh birthday, the taste of honeycake, the warmth of her mother’s hand. It was sharp and clear, a piece she had kept untouched. She pinched it between two fingers and pulled. A silver thread emerged, shimmering with forgotten light. A pang of loss struck her chest as she severed it, and the memory faded to a ghost.

She did not pause. She fed the thread into the Loom, guiding it through the warp and weft, matching the pattern with practiced care. The gap closed, and the tapestry glowed brighter, complete at last. Boon let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. The dream was whole again.

Gently, she lifted the woven dream from the Loom. It felt like silk and warmth, a compact bundle of light no larger than her palm. She wrapped it in a cloth of midnight-blue and rose from her stool. Her cottage was small: one room with a hearth, a bed in the corner, and shelves lined with jars of dream fragments. The Loom stood in the center, its threads trailing across the floor like roots.

Boon padded to the door, slipped on her worn shoes, and stepped into the cool night air. The moon was high, casting silver shadows on the cobblestones of the village. Lira’s cottage was only a few streets away. Boon walked quickly, her breath misting in the chill. She knew the way by heart.

She reached Lira’s door, painted blue with a small wreath of dried flowers. Boon knocked softly, then entered without waiting for an answer. Inside, Lira’s mother sat by the fireplace, dozing. She stirred at Boon’s arrival but said nothing, only nodded. Boon passed through the small room to the back, where a curtain separated Lira’s sleeping alcove.

The girl lay curled under a quilt, her face pinched even in sleep. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. Boon knelt beside the cot, unwrapped the dream, and placed it gently beneath Lira’s pillow. As her fingers brushed the cloth, she whispered the old words: "Return to the dreamer, whole and bright, to guide through the shadows of the night."

A soft sigh escaped Lira’s lips. Her face relaxed, and her breathing deepened. The nightmares would not come tonight.

Boon straightened, a hollow ache in her chest where the memory had been. She would never taste honeycake again without a sense of absence. But she had done what she was meant to do. She turned and left the cottage as quietly as she had entered, nodding once to Lira’s mother.

Outside, the street was empty. Boon was about to head back to her workshop when a figure stepped out of the shadow of a lamppost. A man, tall and cloaked, with a worn satchel slung across his shoulder. His eyes were dark and desperate.

"Boon," he said, his voice rough. "I have been waiting for you. They say you can restore what is lost. I need you to find a dream that was never forgotten."

His words hung in the air. Boon stopped, her hand still on the cloth she had tucked in her pocket. She had never been asked for a dream that had not been forgotten. That was not how her weaving worked.

But the man’s eyes held a plea she could not ignore.

"Come inside," she said slowly, turning back toward her cottage. "Tell me more."