He stood at the edge of something vast.
Not a cliff, not a horizon — something unfinished.
It breathed quietly.
A page, perhaps. A place that wanted to be written.
But he had no ink.
No pen.
No name.
He was not the Threadwriter yet.
He was only a boy who had seen too many endings.
The developers called him a stable anomaly.
The weavers called him a premature echo.
He didn't care. He watched stories begin and break and begin again.
But each time, something remained — a trace, a color, a thread.
And one day, he gathered those threads in his hand.
Not to mend.
Not to control.
But to listen.
And that's when they appeared — the others.
One wore lenses too large for her face and called herself Veyne. She didn't smile much, but she hummed when she worked.
Another was a boy made of leftover ideas, always scribbling in a margin he wasn't supposed to exist in.
And behind them, quiet and always watching — the girl made from discarded finales, who never said her name.
They weren't friends. Not yet. But they were the first to stay.
And so, the first circle was drawn.