The Whittled Wood

The weaver from the northern quarter did not leave. He had found in the quiet hall something he had not known he was seeking, a stillness that resonated with the silent shuttle he carried. He found a place by the wall, and sat.

His hands, so accustomed to the loom, found a rhythm in the simple act of being. He watched Finn’s chisel on stone, Bria’s thread on the loom, Soren’s quiet study of the light. He did not speak, nor did they speak to him. There was no need.

After a time, he rose and found a stack of discarded wood in a corner. With a small knife from his belt, he began to whittle, his hands shaping the wood with the same patient care he gave his weavings. He was not asked; he simply saw a need, and met it.

And so, the community of the quiet hall grew by one. Not through words, but through a shared understanding, a silent recognition of a kindred spirit. The weaver had found his place, not by asking, but by being.