Where the Blood Lies

Previously

…A single tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. In that moment, the Weaver's grip loosened. The threads of vengeance, so tightly wound, began to fray. The unveiling was complete, not just of his identity, but of the shared sorrow that bound us, a sorrow that, perhaps, held the faintest glimmer of a chance for a different kind of future. He turned, a solitary figure swallowed by the shadows of the decaying mill, leaving me to stand amidst the ruins, the weight of the journal a testament to the blood that had stained our families, and the fragile hope for a future where those stains might, eventually, fade.