Woven Echoes

CHAPTER 1: LOOSE THREADS

I never thought my life would change because of an old woman's obsession with threads. And I'm not talking metaphorical threads, like fate or destiny. I'm talking literal, dusty, frayed threads that I'm convinced my Lola was secretly married to. But there I was, sixteen years old, sitting in my Lola Gloria's cramped sewing room-slash-mausoleum of ugly fabric, surrounded by colors so bright they could give you a migraine if you stared too long.

I'm Ava Ramirez, a simple girl living in a complicated world—or maybe it's the other way around. Depends on the day. A few things about me: I'm a young Filipina who's somehow managed to dodge every extraordinary thing in life, which is harder than it sounds when you live with a woman who thinks weaving is the solution to everything, including world peace. If my life were a TV show, it would be a crossover between Telenovela and Scooby-Doo, minus the talking dog and the glamorous drama.

"Lola, why does it always smell like something died in here?" I asked, nose wrinkling. The air was thick with the scent of mothballs and some questionable herbal concoction that I was pretty sure would be illegal if anyone bothered to test it. She shot me a look over her glasses, the kind that could pierce through steel and teenage angst.

"That's the smell of history, Ava. You wouldn't understand," she said, snipping at a thread with her antique scissors as if she were slicing through a person's soul.

To be fair, she was right—I didn't understand. Not why she'd dedicated half her life to this cramped corner of the world, not why she always wore that faded red duster with the floral print, and definitely not why every surface in her home was covered in a thin layer of dust that could double as an archaeological dig site. But I humored her, because despite her eccentricities and her bizarre lectures on "the ancient art of weaving," Lola was my favorite person. And by "favorite," I mean she gave me money for snacks and didn't care if I bombed math.

It's been just the two of us ever since my parents died in a terrible storm. I was only an infant back then. Afterward, I was sent to the care of Lola Gloria, who was my mother's mother. She's taken care of me ever since. And I'm grateful, don't get me wrong, but sometimes living here feels like I'm stuck in a time loop between a fairy tale and an old Filipino horror film.

"Isn't there, like, a Netflix show you can binge or something? It's the modern age, Lola. We have options."

"You have Fletflix or whatever. I have this." She gestured dramatically at the tapestry hanging on the wall—a tapestry so old it looked like it was stitched by dinosaurs. It was an odd thing, about three feet wide and four feet long, full of strange symbols and figures that were always just a little too creepy if you stared at them for too long. It had been in our family for generations, passed down like some cursed hand-me-down that no one really wanted but couldn't get rid of.

I squinted at it. It was far from the usual ones you see in most antique stores. It depicted a vivid scene of people and weird creatures dancing in harmonious circles. This piece was a riot of colors, with red as the dominant hue, making it look like a single sheet of red fabric from afar. In the bottom left corner, a golden quarter sun caught the eye, its brilliant hue adding a touch of warmth and contrast to the otherwise fiery expanse.

"What's the deal with this thing anyway? You act like it's a national treasure, but it just looks like something you'd find in the bargain bin at an ukay-ukay." I wasn't wrong; the thing was faded and tattered, with weird patterns that seemed to twist and shift when you weren't looking.

Lola smirked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Oh, Ava, this is no ordinary tapestry. It's a map. A map of stories and lives. Every thread is a path, every knot is a choice."

There she was again, diving headfirst into her cryptic grandmother shtick. I tried not to roll my eyes. She had this way of turning everything into some grand metaphor, which was fine until you started wondering if the sagging old throw pillows had feelings too. "Cool. But can I eat it?"