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The Time Weaver’s Apprentice

Aisling sat at the foot of the antiquated loom, her fingers shudder as they floated over the gleaming strings. The loom resembled nothing she had at any point seen: it sparkled with 1,000 tones, strings of silver, gold, and violet entwined like a snare of stars. In the focal point of the loom was a heart-formed gem that beat with a mood she could feel somewhere down in her bones. The Time Weaver, a lady with silver hair and eyes as profound as 12 PM, remained next to her, her hands moving nimbly over the strings, directing them with delicate consideration.

“You are prepared,” the Time Weaver said, her voice like a delicate tune. “Weave your most memorable string, Aisling. What’s to come is pausing.”

 

Aisling gulped hard, uncertain assuming she was prepared. She had just been apprenticing for half a month, and however she had taken in the specialty of winding around the strings of time — of retouching broken minutes, of changing little destinies — the heaviness, all things considered, felt a lot for her young shoulders. Consider the possibility that she committed an error. Imagine a scenario in which the strings disentangled. Imagine a scenario in which, in attempting to fix a certain something, she broke something undeniably more significant.

The Time Weaver detected her faltering and grinned, a knowing search in her eyes. “Time is fragile, youngster, yet it is additionally lenient. Every second is woven into the following. One little shift can change the direction of everything. In any case, you should trust yourself.”

Aisling gestured gradually. She took a full breath and gone after a silver string, the mildest of all. The second her fingers contacted it, a dream flew away with a sense of finality. She saw her mom — youthful and snickering, embracing Aisling — before the murkiness came, before the affliction that had removed her unreasonably soon.

Aisling’s heart grasped, the distress of that misfortune taking steps to surpass her. She had always been unable to move past it, continuously feeling like a piece of her had been torn away, never to be patched. She thought about her mom’s delicate grin, her delicate voice, and at that time, the enticement rose — imagine a scenario where she could transform it. Consider the possibility that she could return, fix the sickness, and save her mom.

However at that point, similar to a delicate murmur in her sub-conscience, the Time Weaver’s voice rang out: One little change… one little string…

Aisling faltered, her fingers actually drifting over the string. The vision of her mom sparkled and started to blur, supplanted by a hazier picture: a shadowy figure, its face clouded by a shroud, remaining in a field of curved, passing on trees. Aisling’s heart dashed. It was him. The Alchemist of the Unwinding.

He had been looking for the loom for quite a long time, expecting to utilize its ability to disentangle time itself. In the event that he succeeded, everything — each memory, each second, every string — would self-destruct, lost until the end of time.

Aisling gripped her clench hands, her psyche turning with the potential outcomes. Assuming she proceeded with her arrangement, if she rewove her mom’s passing, the magician’s power would just develop further. She could feel it in the air — the awkwardness, the popping energy of something dull, something risky.

“I… I can’t,” she murmured, pulling her hand back from the string. “I can’t gamble with everything briefly. Not in any event, for her.”

The Time Weaver gestured gradually, her appearance delicate however firm. “The best strength lies not in what we can change, but rather in what we decide to acknowledge. Time can’t be scattered, Aisling. We can’t change the past, yet we can recuperate the present. We can respect those we’ve lost, not by attempting to bring them back, yet via conveying their memory forward.”

Aisling brought down her look, her psyche weighty with distress. In any case, she knew the Time Weaver was correct. In her heart, she felt the reality of it: The strings of time weren’t just about fixing the messed up parts — they were tied in with understanding the fragile equilibrium that kept it all intact.

She took a full breath and turned her look back to the loom. “Then, at that point, I’ll safeguard it. I’ll safeguard time.”

The Time Weaver grinned, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “You will. Presently, weave your string.”

Aisling’s fingers found the silver string once more. This time, when she contacted it, she felt the heaviness of misfortune, however the glow of her mom’s adoration — still there, actually woven into her heart. Gradually, cautiously, she started to wind around. The loom murmured with power, and their general surroundings appeared to pause its breathing.

What’s more, as she wove the strings of time, Aisling realize that even in the haziest minutes, there was consistently a way forward — one string, each second in turn.