By Megan Lange

In the dust that settles at the end of the world where the only light is the
dimness of dawn, there is a woman sitting on a wooden chair. It is not a throne;
she is not a queen. It is not a rocking chair; she is not a crone. It is a wooden
chair you might find anywhere in the world, straight-backed and uncomfortable to
sit on for long periods of time. She sits on it while she weaves with a cat
sleeping lazily at her feet. There is a single flickering flame that lights her
workspace, illuminating spools of thread in every imaginable color and a large loom
fashioned from the same wood as the chair. She moves the threads with practiced
intention, weaving tiny lines and cells into a new tapestry. A scene is playing out
on it, a couple of people who are still only feet. Their toes point together and
when she reaches their heads they will be face to face. The weaver can hear the
conversation hissing through the dust outside her door. She can see in her mind’s
eyes the faces of the two people. Only she is watching, and she is watching it all,
weaving it as it happens.

Long ago she was something else, but she has retired into quiet, comfortable
obscurity far from worship and zealotry. She loves the loom. Loves the dim light in
her sliver of the world, loves the chair that hurts her back and her lazy cat. It
is peaceful to watch scenes play out. When she finishes a tapestry she sets it
outside where it joins countless others. The colors will bleed away in time. The
fibers of the scene will crumble and join the dust that swirls around her peaceful,
lonely little place. Once the cat stretched and watched her work before asking in
his small voice, Do you make the scenes happen or as they happen? She paused her
work and frowned down at him. Does it matter?

More than anything, he’d argued, but she had to disagree. The pure joy of
creating something was worth more than the lives it did or did not impact. She
couldn’t help what she wove. Maybe she was merely mirroring what was happening
somewhere out in the world, or maybe she was under the control of whoever wove her
own tapestry.

She’d taken up the cat because she desired minimal companionship. When she stopped
to feed or pet him it reminded her that time was indeed moving along. Besides that,
she couldn’t help feeling kinship for the little beast. She admired him for
wandering to the edge of time as she once had. He was brown but had been grey when
he arrived, coated thick with dust, hungry, but lively. Even as he lazed around day
after day there was a glimmer of fire in his green eyes that never dimmed. He kept
small beasts from destroying her work or making nests in her spools of thread. They
got into arguments to pass the time and waxed philosophical over meals.

What makes you say that? she asked. He was the only outsider to ever look into her
little workshop and thought her ways were very strange. He claimed to recognize
some of the figures in her tapestries. From when I was a man, he said, but she
doubted he was ever anything but a cat. Why else would he wander so far afield in
search of someone to feed him and scratch behind his ears?

If you are in control of the world then you can change it. Judge those who should
have a better or worse picture. She didn’t like that; it made her fingers fumble
over the fibers of her creation. It reminded her of the days when she was asked for
miracles and punishments.

I don’t interfere. She’d answered carefully. Not can’t, not won’t. Don’t.

Sasha awoke with a sudden start. The moonlight streaming through her window glinted
off Toblerone’s yellow eyes and he was glowering at her for waking him. She sat up
and rubbed her head. It was pounding and her mouth was dry. There were crusties in
the corner of her eye that felt suspiciously like dust. She picked up her phone and
squinted at the bright screen. Her alarm was set for three and it was two minutes
till. Groaning, she threw back her covers much to Toblerone’s dismay. He meowed his
disapproval and jumped off the bed. The little bell on his collar jingled as he
padded down the hallway and awaited his breakfast.

Sasha packed her hamper into the too-small trunk of her car and headed off for the
laundromat. She passed a few other cars and had to wonder what they were doing up
at that hour.

The laundromat wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t completely abandoned either. There were
three other cars parked, including a shiny old Mustang right in front of the
entrance. A young couple was out front smoking when she walked in. A haggard-
looking woman waited beside a drier with her son asleep in her lap. In the back
corner by her favorite washer sat a man in an outrageous green silk coat. She
smiled as she walked by to throw her clothes in.

“Laundry day, huh?” she said with a cheeky nod at his coat. He frowned at her.

“What?”