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Back in his tiny hut, Mṛdula placed the filament beside his loom. The ordinary cotton and wool threads sang in harmony with the new strand, yet they refused to bind. The loom seemed to hum, as if asking a question it could not voice.

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He breathed slowly, feeling each inhale draw the filament’s cool light into his chest, and each exhale release his doubts. As his breath steadied, the loom’s shuttle began to move on its own, guided by a gentle, unseen hand. Back in his tiny hut, Mṛdula placed the