Wirasmi Ratnawijaya had learned long ago not to ask why.
In her small workshop tucked behind a row of flowering shrubs in southern GarudaCity, she worked in silence, guided not by ambition but by instinct. The room was simple—wooden shelves lined with folded garments, a single worktable near the window, and an old sewing machine that hummed softly when in use.
Dawn light filtered in, pale and cool.
She held a half-finished blouse in her hands, fingers resting lightly against the fabric.
It trembled.
Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But Wirasmi felt it.
Her breath stilled.
"…You woke up," she whispered.
The cloth felt warm now, as if it remembered something. Not heat—presence. A gentle pull, like a question asked without words.
Wirasmi closed her eyes.
Memories that were not hers brushed the edges of her thoughts: rain-soaked streets, careful hands smoothing wrinkles, a young man standing alone in a tall building with doubt written across his shoulders.
She frowned softly.
"That's new."
She set the blouse down and reached for a different piece of fabric from the shelf—a recycled linen scarf brought to her weeks ago by a woman who had asked only one thing.
"Please make it feel… lighter."
Wirasmi had done nothing unusual. No blessing. No ritual. Just careful stitching, steady breathing, and the quiet intention to help.
Now the scarf pulsed faintly.
Two fabrics.
Same response.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
This had never happened before.
She moved to the window and pushed it open. Outside, GarudaCity stretched beneath a thin veil of mist. The hills beyond the rooftops were barely visible, wrapped in pale green shadows.
Something had shifted in the city.
Not loudly. Not violently.
But everywhere.
Wirasmi leaned her forehead briefly against the window frame.
"Please don't rush," she murmured—not to anyone in particular. "If you move too fast… people will get hurt."
The fabric in her hands stilled.
As if listening.
---
Across the city, Danindra Wiradandi Suryaatmaja sat at the same worktable where the anomaly had occurred, his tablet projecting lines of data into the air.
None of it made sense.
The unnamed thread refused categorization. It did not amplify emotion. It did not enhance durability. It did not respond to stress tests or magical stimuli.
Yet every time Danindra brought it near another piece of cloth, the surrounding material stabilized.
Frayed fibers tightened. Inconsistent weaves smoothed themselves.
It wasn't adding anything.
It was correcting.
"Like it knows what the fabric is supposed to be," Danindra muttered.
> OBSERVATION CONFIRMED, AI Kira responded.
THREAD BEHAVIOR INDICATES ALIGNMENT, NOT ENHANCEMENT.
"Alignment with what?"
A pause.
> REFERENCE DATA INSUFFICIENT.
Danindra leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "So we have a thread that fixes things by… reminding them who they are?"
> SIMPLIFIED SUMMARY: ACCEPTABLE.
He exhaled a quiet laugh. "You're enjoying this."
> NEGATIVE.
PROCESSING UNCERTAINTY.
Danindra's expression softened.
"Yeah. Me too."
The room fell silent again. Outside, the city sounded normal. Too normal.
He saved the data and locked the thread away inside a transparent containment box—not sealed, just separated.
"I don't know who you belong to," he said quietly, almost apologetically. "But until I do, I can't let you loose."
The fabric inside the box did not resist.
---
By midday, word of a minor anomaly had reached Yunitra Ayu Kartikasari.
She stood in her office at Oneiro Rewear, arms crossed, listening without interrupting as Danindra explained the situation.
"No visible energy spike," he finished. "No harm done. But it's definitely not something we designed."
Yunitra's eyes were calm, but sharp. "Does it break any ethical constraint?"
Danindra hesitated. "That's the problem. It doesn't act like power."
"That makes it more dangerous," she said evenly.
He nodded. "I know."
Yunitra turned toward the window, gazing out at the city. "Then we move carefully. No announcements. No testing on clients. Not yet."
"Agreed."
She was quiet for a moment longer. Then—
"Danindra," she said, her voice softer now, "did it feel… familiar?"
He blinked. "Yes."
Yunitra closed her eyes briefly.
"So did I."
---
As evening approached, Wirasmi finished closing her workshop for the day. She tied the door gently and rested her back against it, looking up at the sky as clouds deepened into shades of blue.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
An unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
There was a brief silence on the other end. Then a calm, unfamiliar voice.
"Good evening," the man said. "Please forgive the intrusion. I was told you repair clothing that… listens."
Wirasmi's heart skipped.
"…Who told you that?" she asked quietly.
Another pause.
"Someone who trusts harmony more than systems."
She closed her eyes.
"I don't know what you're looking for," she said. "But if you're looking for power, you've called the wrong person."
The man's voice softened, just slightly.
"On the contrary," he replied. "I'm looking for restraint."
The call ended.
Wirasmi lowered the phone slowly, pulse steady but alert.
Somewhere far away, in LionCity Raya, Ace Aznur Pratama Wiraraja set his phone down.
"It's her," he said to the empty room.
And in GarudaCity, threads that had slept for generations waited—patiently—for what would happen next.