Your choice changes what happens next
A sneeze in the weaving
Tara had nearly finished her first cloth for Bellwisp's evening picnic when the wind sneezed through it. Yellow climbed the window. Blue curled round her ear. Rose tickled the ceiling. In Bellwisp, her grandmother Neri could weave borrowed sky-colors into linen. Apparently her apprentice could weave them out again. "That," Tara said, "was not in the lesson."
"I only wanted to try it on," said the wind. Tara stared at the empty doorway. "You speak?" "Mostly when somebody listens." It wanted people to see it coming, instead of noticing only their missing hats. The bright curls were still joined to the cloth by shining threads. Nothing in town had lost its own color.
"Loose sky-colors return home at sunset. A finished hem keeps them," Neri said. She packed her pocket loom, cotton scraps, linen thread, needle and wooden shuttle in a basket. Tara gathered the uncut cloth. Yellow streamed towards the market; the wind offered a quieter explanation under the bridge. Or they could experiment right here.