The Gaze That Threads

"I thought I was learning how to see.But now I wonder—Am I being taught how to be seen?"

The thought lingered like smoke in the corners of his room, curling behind his eyes, threading through his breath. Darian stood before the mirror in the hallway, its cracked surface showing only his reflection now—steady, silent, unblinking.

And yet…

The sensation remained.

That he was not looking into a mirror.But through it.Or perhaps—being looked at from the other side.

He took a step back.

The thread above his shoulder had vanished.

The manor was silent again.

Not empty.Never truly empty.But the kind of quiet that hides noise rather than lacking it.

Darian returned to his cot and sat.

He did not sleep.

Sleep had become a luxury.Or a trap.

Each time he closed his eyes, he fell too deeply—through layers not made of thought, but of thread, and breath, and memory. Sometimes he'd wake with marks on his skin, like the echoes of a seamstress's touch.

Tonight, he stayed awake.

The glove remained under the floorboard.

But he felt its pressure—like a phantom limb.Not on his hand.In his chest.

That second heartbeat.

Still there.

Still not his.

The morning light brought no warmth.

Only a dull grey that seemed to smear itself across the stone walls like dust that refused to settle.

The halls were unusually busy.

Servants moved in tighter formations. Orders were whispered. Doors were opened with greater care and closed with greater caution.

Something had shifted.

He heard snippets.

"…arrival from the central cities…"

"…inspection… but not from the House…"

"…they're watching everyone…"

And in the stillness between voices: footsteps that did not echo.

Someone—or some group—had come.

And not for the nobles.

Not this time.

Midday.

Darian was in the north wing, passing beneath one of the broken archways where ivy had split the stone, when he saw it:

A thread.Vibrating.

Not pulsing like before.Not swaying in curiosity.

But shaking—violently, urgently.

Like a nerve exposed.

He froze.

Reached slowly for the glove.

Then stopped.

The thread snapped before he could move.

Cleanly. Soundlessly.

It curled in on itself.Then vanished.

As if it had never been there.

But in its place—where it had hovered—was a thin line scorched into the stone.

Black. Cracked.Like a scar.

Darian touched it with his bare fingers.

It was still warm.

That night, he wore the glove again.

Not because he wished to—but because he needed to know.

The moment it settled on his hand, three threads emerged.

Not one.

Three.

All different colors.

One white.One red.And one—dark green, almost black, with tiny flecks of silver pulsing within.

They did not curl.

They didn't bend.

They hovered.

And they trembled.

As if… uncertain.

He reached for the white one.

It recoiled.

The red flickered in response.

The dark green spun once. Slowly. Then stopped.

Darian stood still.

He didn't touch them.

He just whispered:

"Who else is pulling?"

The green thread shimmered. Once.

Then curled downward and snapped.

He was no longer the only one affecting the threads.

Something—or someone—had begun stitching over the same patterns.

And their hand was less careful.

Less patient.

Less silent.

Two nights later, he saw her.

Not clearly.

Not fully.

But enough.

A figure in the hallway outside the broken chapel—standing perfectly still between torch brackets. Not a servant. Not a noble.

Her silhouette was wrapped in a layered garment—fabric that bent too many times, like folds upon folds of stitched shadows. Her face was hidden by a thin veil, but threads extended from her fingers in every direction, vanishing into the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

They moved when she breathed.

Darian did not move.

She did not either.

Then—she raised her hand.

Not to wave. Not to reach.

To cut.

He couldn't see the blade.

But the thread above him snapped instantly.

He stepped back.

She was gone.

The hallway was empty.

Only the torch remained.

Burning blue.

He began to notice unthreaded spaces.

Places where no threads appeared.

No vibrations.No pull.Just silence.

And cold.

Like something had been… removed.

Unwoven.

One of those spaces was the main prayer room of the chapel.

He tested it.

Stepped inside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the pull in his chest stopped.

The glove grew numb.

The warmth left his fingertips.

The world felt… flat.

Wrong.

Too still.

Like something important had been ripped away.

He left after only a few seconds.

But the echo of that emptiness followed him for hours.

In the mirror, his reflection sometimes blurred.

Not the whole image.

Just the eyes.

They'd shift slightly.

Reposition.

As if being moved.

Not by him.

But by a hand behind the glass.

That night, he received another gift.

No knock. No footstep. No whisper.

Just the presence.

And the box.

Resting beside his cot.

Unmarked.

Inside: a black needle.

Not metal.

Not wood.

Something else.

It shimmered like thread—but held its shape like bone.

And at its base:

A symbol etched so finely it almost disappeared.

A spiral.Split by a line.

Below it: a single word written on a folded scrap of parchment.

"Choose."

He did not choose.

Not yet.

He wrapped the needle in cloth and placed it beside the glove beneath the floorboard.

And for the first time in days—

He slept.

Not because he felt safe.

But because the world had become too loud to hear anything more.

In the dream:

A loom.

Burning.

Not with fire.

With motion.

The threads moved so quickly they lit the room with friction—sparks of colorless light peeling into the air like fireflies.

And standing before it—

Two figures.

One with no face.One with no hands.Both staring through the mirror at him.

Not seeing him.

Sewing him.

He woke with blood on his palm.

His own.

Thin cuts where threads had passed in sleep.

He said nothing.

He asked no more questions.

But the threads still came.

They gathered now.

At night.

Around his cot.

Above the mirrors.

In the corners of rooms he hadn't entered.

They no longer drifted.

They waited.

They weren't calling to him anymore.

They were waiting for him to act.

"I thought I was being taught to be seen.But now… I'm beginning to feel like I was stitched into place.And someone's about to tug."