Blissful Mornings - The Arrow and the Thread

It began as a swatch she hadn’t meant to pick.

Deep red thread. An arrow—stitched not in full, but just the outline. Blunt at one end, sharp

at the other. The fabric was dark and aged, like something kept at the bottom of an old cedar

chest.

She didn’t know who had made it. It wasn’t labeled. It didn’t match the colors of the other

swaddles.

But her hand reached for it, as if guided.

She carried it to the low table where the basket of threads sat in waiting. The red one—thin,

slightly coarse—slipped easily through her fingers.

She paused as she threaded the needle. Her thumb brushed its metal eye, cool and familiar,

but somehow weighted. As she pressed the red thread through, a chill passed through her

hand—as if the fabric remembered pain.

She sat by the open door of the swaddle cottage, facing the sea. The waves danced, soft and

silver.

Her fingers moved carefully, guiding the thread into the shape of the arrow’s edge. And yet…

her thoughts wandered.

To the dream. The golden-haired boy. Philippe.

The way he moved along the walls, searching. The way his eyes met hers, not as a

stranger’s—but as if he belonged to the story already.

She shook her head lightly and blinked.

The needle had paused mid-stitch. She looked down—the red thread had formed a curve

rather than a line.

It had bent. Not like a mistake. But like a direction changed.

She held the swatch in her hand and traced the thread.

The sea echoed softly behind her. The waves were pulling in closer now, not harsh, just

present.

She glanced toward the water. Something stirred in her chest. A memory not her own. A

presence not fully named.

She turned the swatch over. The stitches on the back had formed something else entirely.

A tear.

-Bliss Chains Authors