THE ECHOES OF ASHES - by Mimi ✨

The village of Arvindale sat between a crooked forest and a silver lake, often kissed by morning mist and brushed by melancholy winds. Its cobblestone streets whispered stories of old love, buried secrets, and quiet sorrow. Among its winding paths stood a moss-covered cottage with a cracked wooden sign that read “The Weaver’s Daughter.” It was here that Elira lived, and it was here that tragedy quietly stitched itself into her fate. Elira was born under the shadow of a blood moon. Her mother, Lysa, a once-renowned weaver, believed the crimson sky marked her child with a destiny not meant for peace. As a child, Elira was quiet, often found alone with bits of thread wrapped around her fingers, eyes fixed on the patterns they formed. By the time she turned twelve, her weaving was known beyond the village. She didn’t just make cloth—she wove memories, emotions, and moments. People claimed her tapestries brought back feelings long forgotten. A widow once wept for hours before one, saying she could hear her late husband laughing in the threads. Despite her quiet nature, Elira’s heart yearned for more than the rhythmic pull of thread and loom. She dreamt of a world beyond Arvindale—mountains that scraped the stars, oceans that hummed lullabies, skies that never wept. She dreamed until the day he arrived. Aiden came at the tail of autumn, when the leaves blazed like fire. A scholar from the East, his purpose was to study the runes carved into the stones surrounding the village. He was curious, full of questions and wonder, with eyes that always seemed to be searching for more. He wandered into Elira’s life the way rain enters dry soil—gently, but thoroughly. He asked to learn the stories behind her weavings and soon became a fixture in her cottage. She taught him to blend colors the way the sunset kisses the horizon, and he read her tales from faraway lands she had only dared to imagine. They were opposites—her silence, his song. Yet, like threads in a tapestry, they intertwined seamlessly. They began walking together at dusk, sharing secrets like offerings. Under the old willow tree by the lake, he told her of the city’s bustle and chaos. She told him of dreams that came wrapped in sorrow. One rainy evening, as the lake danced with silver ripples, he kissed her beneath the willow. It was hesitant, tender—like both knew this love, though real, was borrowed from fate. Winter arrived with a bitterness that bit through walls. The plague came with it. It began as a cough, a shiver. Then it spread—quietly at first, then like wildfire. The healer’s herbs failed. The children went first, then the old. Elira watched funerals happen faster than burials. The willow tree by the lake became a marker of grief, its roots soaked in tears. Aiden stayed. Despite Elira’s pleas to leave, he remained. He volunteered in the infirmary, took notes on the illness, helped where he could. But one morning, she found him shaking, his skin pale and eyes glassy. The fever had come for him. She tried everything. She ground herbs, sang lullabies her mother once whispered. She begged the gods, cursed them when they didn’t answer. Aiden grew weaker. He spoke only in murmurs, often calling her name as if it anchored him. She didn’t sleep. She didn’t eat. She just wove. Her loom became an altar of grief. Day and night, she worked, weaving a tapestry unlike any other. It was Arvindale—reborn. Children laughing, windows lit with joy. The air glowed in the threads. At its heart: Aiden and Elira beneath the willow, hand in hand, untouched by time or plague. But he died before she finished it. There was no scream, no collapse. She simply laid her head against his chest, listened to the silence where his heartbeat should have been, then returned to her loom. She placed the final stitch the next dawn, folded the tapestry carefully, and vanished. The villagers awoke to find the cottage door open. A single note rested on the loom: “If love is a thread, then mine has unraveled.” No one saw where she went. Some said she walked into the lake, swallowed by its depths. Others believed she wandered into the forest, seeking an end among the trees. But her body was never found. Years passed. Arvindale, scarred but surviving, learned to live again. New children played in the streets, though laughter never quite reached the willow tree. The lake remained still, as though mourning. Elira’s cottage stood abandoned, dusted with ivy, untouched. Then, on the eve of another blood moon, a merchant arrived. He was old, eyes rheumy, hands calloused. He carried with him a tapestry—faded, frayed, but unmistakable. It was Arvindale, alive as it once was. Every face was there, every lantern lit. At its center stood Elira and Aiden, frozen in joy beneath the willow. The villagers gathered, many weeping before it. Emotions poured from the threads—grief, hope, longing. The merchant said a gaunt woman with hollow eyes sold it to him in a distant city. She asked for only one silver coin and vanished before he could ask her name. Today, the tapestry hangs in the village square. On misty mornings, some claim you can hear the soft click of a loom echoing faintly in the air. Others swear they’ve seen a figure by the willow, dark-haired and draped in a shawl of blue thread. And if you listen closely, as the sun rises and the lake sighs—you might hear a whisper in the wind: Aiden…

Other insights from Mimi ✨

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons