By Callum 
Within a tower’s walls, a circle of women sits in quiet vigil, threaded by labor and longing. Their hands fast at needle and loom, they stitch the very skin of the world. Streams, houses, clouds—each thread, each stitch, becomes a part of the landscape, embroidered into being.
Above them, the air floats with possibility. Though bound within walls, their vision stretches outward, touching horizon and earth. The mantle, fragile but vast, becomes their canvas: part creation myth, part intimate ritual.
A hooded figure stirs a cauldron beneath flickering light, threads rising from its brew like whispered spells. The women quiet, focused, their eyes both captive and free. The work is heavy: the weight of expectation, of tradition, of a world that asks them to build and yet remain unseen.
Yet there is a rebellion too. In one thread there is a hidden pattern, a secret of love and escape. Each stitch becomes both act and prayer. The embroidery covers the world—but cannot contain the dream that wove it.