The Doorway

The woven frame rested between them, a tangible silence. The frantic energy of its creation had vanished, replaced by a quiet, profound question that hung in the air: What now?

‘It feels…finished,’ Jorun said, his voice rough with sawdust and awe. ‘But what is it for? Is it a tool? A decoration? I don’t know what to do with it.’

‘It is its own thing,’ Elian murmured, his fingers tracing the line where wood met thread. ‘It doesn’t feel like it belongs to us anymore. It feels like it belongs to the village.’

‘It belongs to everyone,’ a new voice said. Nyra stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on the object. ‘And it is not a thing to be used. It is a thing to be learned. It is a language.’

‘This,’ she said, stepping into the workshop and gently touching the frame, ‘is the first word. And a language that is not shared is a language that will die. This must be taught.’

‘Then let it be a lesson,’ Jorun said, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘We will teach this… this common tongue. To anyone who wishes to learn.’

And as if in answer, others began to appear in the doorway—Doran, the blacksmith, and Rue, the young gardener, their faces filled with curiosity. The first lesson was about to begin.