What Tangled Paths We Sew

The warehouse looms among the other industrial shells. How many times have I walked past this unmarked door? How many eyes have followed me home in the dark?

From the street it’s nothing: rusted sheet metal, poured concrete, a slit of a loading bay. I circle the perimeter, searching for any sign this is more than an abandoned box.

Nothing moves inside.

I’m ready to call it — a prank, an organ harvester, whatever — when I spot a small outbuilding tucked against the wall. The old maintenance office. A tarnished copper bell hangs by the door. From its clapper dangles a long red braid of silk.

The braid swings gently, though there’s no wind. The backfire of a car and the hiss of the train pulling into the station keep time. The bell doesn’t.

This is it, a voice whispers.

I step closer. The silk ends in an intricate heart-shaped knot. I wrap my fingers around the braid. It almost feels… warm.

Like skin.

I twist the braid around my wrist and give it a cautious tug.

Silence.

Somewhere inside, a lock clicks.

Gears grind to life.

The ground gives.

And I drop into pitch-dark nothingness.

Cold air rushes into my sleeves, stealing my breath.

Above me, the bell tolls once, the sound wrong and far away.

Fear drops, heavy, in my stomach, but I don’t have to wait for long.

Within seconds, I land on a dusty, springy netting.  Like a fly in a web.

My eyes struggle to adjust in the darkness.

Rope dust coats my tongue; I cough, the net twanging under me.

A light snaps on — mercilessly bright — revealing a solitary figure in red beyond the mesh.

“Hello, Aura. Welcome to The Knot.”

 

✂︎ ✂︎ ✂︎

 

The figure rings a tarnished copper bell. Two attendants slip through the doorway behind them, copper-silk suits whispering as they move. They steady me by the forearms and untangle me from the netting. Dusting rope grit from my palms, I face the one in red. The attendants vanish into the hallway.

Tall and lithe with short, slicked-back auburn hair; a face cut in knife-sure planes; calculating eyes the patina green of oxidized copper. A gold ear cuff climbs their right ear. The crimson suit drinks the light and gives back command.

“Apodora,” they say, offering a gloved hand. “I’m a Spindle.”

I take it — steel under satin.

Spindle. A spark catches. “It was you?”

 A sly smile tugs the corner of their mouth.

“Follow me.” Apodora turns on their heel and strides into the concrete hallway beyond.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“We’re a collective. People, like you, who know that there is more to life than this reality.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could explain, or I could show you. Showing holds better.”

They push through bronze doors into a large room where several people are gathered.

A woman in an oxblood suit stands in the middle of a semicircle of folding chairs, each filled with other newcomers in street clothes.

Apodora gestures to an empty chair in front of the woman.

“Aura, listen here — Liasis is also a Spindle. She’s walking others through the Knot. She’ll be able to answer any questions you may have. I need to check on our outreach boards.”

“Outreach boards?”

A cork wall veined with red and gold thread stretches across pinned Polaroids — constellations of names stitched to dates.

One photo double-exposes, then settles—two lives aligning by a hair’s breadth.

“Every thread strengthens the Knot. For the Knot to hold, its threads must hold. We support our own.”

I weave toward the empty seat, catching the woman mid-speech.

“—and you don’t have to stay. There are safer ways to access the Tapestry. We’ll teach you to true yourself to adjacent versions.”

What the fuck is she talking about?

The dark-haired woman meets my eyes — as if she heard my thought.

“String theory isn’t literal enough,” she says. “We use it literally. Every reality is a string. Together they make the Tapestry. Every decision ties a knot — an intersection you can leverage to slip from this string to the next.”

Can it really be that easy — can I slip into a better life like a new pair of shoes?

“I’m going to walk you through a simple exercise to access a minor knot —nothing too disruptive, just enough to knot your string. Everyone, sit on the floor, cross-legged, if you please.” She tosses her midnight-dark hair and settles onto the floor.

“Every shift requires shedding — something you sacrifice, some part of you. The more consequential the knot, the more shedding required. For this, choose one: pluck a hair, an eyelash, a fingernail; or — if you won’t part with the body — part with a memory.

“Close your eyes. Picture what you ate for breakfast this morning. Now replace it with your favorite breakfast.

“Hold on the senses: the smell, the taste, the textures. Let it become real.

“When the image is clear, shed. If it’s hair, wrap it around your finger and break it. If it’s a memory, watch it lift and dissolve until there’s a clean, bright absence.”

I settle on the floor and close my eyes.

I didn’t eat breakfast today. The half-eaten shrimp noodles on my counter —now probably siren-calling the roaches — were my first meal.

I run my fingers through my ash brown hair and come away with a few strands.

Bright, buttery hollandaise over a perfectly runny yolk. Salty smoked salmon. Cool, creamy avocado. When it’s solid in my head, I twirl the strands and snap.

A sensation slithers down my skin, too tight for a heartbeat. A bright copper tang blooms on my tongue.

I swipe my lip. It’s clean.

I open my eyes in my tiny kitchen, hip against the counter. A plate of hot eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and avocado steams.

What the —?

The place is spotless. No roaches. Fresh roses in a crystal vase—two place settings. A folded pink note waits by the plate.

Had an early morning — good luck with the promotion interview!

Love, M.

Malekai. Well, it’s nice to know he was capable of loving me in at least one reality.

I sit, breathe in the lemon-butter, and take a cautious bite. It’s incredible. I devour it, rinse the plate, slide it into the dish rack.

I drift through the apartment to the bedroom. A queen-sized bed with pale green sheets. A framed photograph on one of the bedside tables. I pick it up.

Me, apparently happy with Malekai. We’re out camping somewhere. There’s a little scar on my lower lip. I trace the crescent shape on the glass.

Wonder how I got that.

Leaving the room, I notice a pink velvet bow. It looks like my work bow but not made from the same scratchy recycled plastic ribbon as mine.

 I don’t recognize it.

The jingle of a bell flits through the air. I look toward the door where I heard the sound.

A red braid hangs from the door — twin to the one at the warehouse.

I pull.

I jolt back onto the floor. My belly is full for the first time in weeks. A single red drop lands on my wrist.

I wipe it away.

I have to do this again.

I have to learn how to pull the threads of the Tapestry.