Before the yarn even meets the needle’s small, polished tip, there is always a moment of anticipation—a breath held in the air. The needle, slender and gleaming, hovers above the waiting yarn, poised for the dance about to begin.

As the yarn is guided towards the needle, there is a sense of purpose, as if the fibers themselves are aware of the transformation that is about to take place.

The needle pierces the space between the strands, slipping into the first loop. The yarn follows, drawn by the needle’s precise direction, and is gently coaxed through the loop’s tight embrace. With a delicate twist, the needle guides the yarn through its tiny eye, capturing it within the smooth curve of its surface. The yarn clings to the needle, a willing partner in this intricate dance.

As the needle moves, the yarn is wrapped around its tip in a soft, flowing motion, almost as if the yarn itself is embracing the needle. The first loop slides through, giving birth to the very first stitch, the foundation of the fabric that will soon take shape. Each subsequent stitch builds upon the last, a sequence of motions where the needle and yarn move as one, creating a rhythm that is both soothing and satisfying.

The rhythmic motion, almost hypnotic—each stitch a tiny triumph of coordination and timing. The yarn, soft and—

“Ouch!” I yelped as my finger flicked away from the needle that had poked me instead of the yarn, a tiny bead of blood forming where it pricked my skin.

“Why is it so difficult?” I said out loud in frustration.

No, really, it didn’t make sense. I’ve been practicing for two months now. Why was I struggling so much?

Sure, I could have payed more attention back when I was a child, but I doubt it would have made a difference. At the time, I found the explanations and guidelines strange and tedious, beneath of someone of my stature, focusing on the more interesting aspect of my studies such as music.

How could I have ever predicted I’d end up in this predicament?

‘If it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.’

Starting over, with slower movements and a little less sophisticated approach, I guided the yarn through the loop.

I was complaining, but actually, I found it quite enjoyable.

The teachings, while a tad too campy for something as simple as knitting, had their merit. This simple movements of the hand carried this serenity—this tranquility; it was quite fascinating when one looked beyond the veil.

At first, the thread seems insignificant—a lone strand, twisting and turning without apparent direction. Each loop, each knot, felt like a small, isolated moment, disconnected from the larger picture.

But as the thread continued its journey, winding through loops, intertwining with other threads, a pattern began to emerge. What once appeared chaotic and meaningless now revealed itself as part of a grander design. The seemingly random twists and turns were not random at all—they were necessary. They were the building blocks of something greater, something beautiful.

As the pattern unfolded, it was only then that you began to realize how each thread contributed to the whole. The individual stitches were no longer just simple loops of yarn; they were part of a tapestry, rich and complex, where every thread has a place, and every knot served a purpose.

‘Maybe it’s not as campy as I believe it to be.’ I thought to myself, pausing for a moment to allow my hands to relax and peek out the window.

Of course, Lyon wasn’t there. He had gone much deeper into the forest, but I felt the need to check none the less.

After the memorial, things had changed.

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He wasn’t afraid of me. Quite the opposite. He would cling onto me, never leaving my side. Wherever I went, he was there, never more than a step behind. It was both heartwarming and heartbreaking; while he had come to trust me, the weight of his past still loomed over him, his fears lingering like ghosts that refused to be laid to rest.

“Is the water safe?” he would ask, eyes wide with uncertainty. Or, “Are there beasts hiding behind the snow?” he would whisper, every time the snow shifted in the wind.

It took me a good while to convince him that there was no need to worry, and he believed me, but that was a slow process.

With a soft sigh, I returned to my work.

For now, I was satisfied with him feeling comfortable enough to play outside without the need of me staying close. Last month’s trip had proved quite fruitful.

Figuratively, of course.

It was a simple walk in the forest. There was nothing special about it. What made the difference was the wake of spring, with the first blooms welcoming us, blended with the snow of winter. In a sense, it was quite magical how the two seasons coexisted.

Lyon mustn’t have seen anything like it, because his eyes sparkled with excitements, and in a surprising turn of events, he was the one to initiate the conversation, asking about the flowers, their properties and how it was possible for them to bloom in the snow.

That’s when I made the decision to start tutoring him. The choice wasn’t easy, not because I doubted my ability to teach, but because of what it symbolized.

The role of a tutor carries deep significance for us Elves, and, traditionally, it’s the mother who guides her child, passing down wisdom from one generation to the next.

But I… I was not his mother.

Yet, I felt a quiet resolve take root in my heart.

Perhaps this was a test, a challenge set by the Gods to see if I could fill the void left by his past. Or maybe it was the benevolent Moon answering my longing, offering me a chance to be something I had always wanted but could never have.

Even as I made my decision, doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind.

Would Lyon accept me, or would he turn away?

This question plagued my mind, doubt creeping in, but in the end it was for naught. I had already made my choice.

Whatever the reason behind our meeting, whatever the future might hold, I would take him in and raise him as if he were my own.

And if the day came when he wished to leave and forget me, then I would let him go, and cherish these moments where my dream had come true.

By the time I was done with today’s practice, the light of day was showing its last colors.

I glanced out the window, and the thought of going out to find him immediately tugged at my mind.

‘What if he’s lost? Or worse, what if he’s encountered a beast? I’ve told the Deerhorn to stay close and protect him, but there’s a limit to what a beast can do.’

My gaze drifted from the window to the piano, then to the knitting needles beside it. The crude tunic I had just finished—stitched with clumsy hands in shades of green and yellow—seemed to stare back at me.

‘No, Mira,’ I reminded myself, ‘he’s fine.’

Folding and putting it to the side, I took a glass of cold water. Then, my gaze drifted to the piano across the room once more.

For a moment, I was hesitant, questioning if I should indulge, but then again...

‘Why not?’

I had practiced all day, my fingers now adorned with new stitches for my efforts. Surely, I deserved a small reward, didn’t I?

My fingertips hovered over the keys in anticipation. I closed my eyes, allowing a single breath of silence to fill the space. Then, I pressed the first key. A soft, resonant note bloomed in the room, soon followed by another, and another, as my hands found their rhythm, weaving a tapestry of melodies.

‘If only knitting were this effortless.’

The thought drifted lazily through my mind as I surrendered to the music, letting it carry me away from my worries. Slowly, the dark veil turned white, and the white in turn blossomed into the fabric of a long, flowing dress. The dress grew and grew, its hem trailing like a river of petals, until I was back in the garden of my childhood, where my mother sat at the piano.

She was there, at the heart of the garden, her fingers dancing across the keys. With each note she played, the garden seemed to come alive, the flowers swaying to the rhythm of her melody, their colors swirling in a delicate ballet. Her music was the thread that tied it all together, guiding the scene into a harmonious dance.

As the song came to an end, the notes slowed down, and the garden slowly dissolved, the vibrant colors dimming. The last note hung in the air, slowly dissolving into the quiet of the room. Finally, the garden faded, the dress faded, my mother faded.

I opened my eyes, and the familiar sight of the piano returned. The pained stitches also returned, and at that time, the door opened.

“I’m back.”

Lyon, as promised, had returned before nightfall.

He was caked in mud from head to toe, his clothes barely visible beneath the thick layers of dirt. Beyond that, my eyes feel upon the bloodied scratches crisscrossing his skin, and a familiar worry tightened in my chest—only to loosen with the next breath.

It was the smile, shining with a fierce, triumphant light in his eyes, that reminded me of the strange healing that would erase these marks by morning, as if the wounds were never there.

Still, why did he have to make me worry so much?

I shook my head, and smiled back.

Didn't I want to become a mother?

"I'll go prepare your bath."