In a small room where the ceiling was the sky and the floor was an uncharted ocean, lay a forgotten loom. Its wooden frame creaked as if it whispered tales of yore. But oh! What curiosities it weaved. There were patterns not of this world, colors borrowed from a sunset's sorrow and moonlight's shadow.
The children of the village whispered about the loom at night. "It never sleeps," they'd say, "it dreams while we wander." Strands of gold and night wove through visions of floating, wistful constellations. Sometimes, if you squinted just right, you might even see the stars dance, a waltz for the mischievous night.
But with each delicate thread, a sinister thread lingered. Myriad voices—faint, forgotten—hidden within each twist and turn. Curious eyes would watch and wait, for the loom's dance was eternal, yet something darker always stitched pockets of night into the fabric.
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