thread by thread, every color tied to a story, every pattern a little map of where someone’s soul has traveled You run your fingers across one, you can almost hear it the click of a loom, the hush of a weaver’s breath, the soft rhythm of creation a rhythm that don’t need permission, just space, and time, and hands that remember their way home All rhythms talk to each other The dancer moves like the huipil was stitched for her heart the building in Puebla stands steady like it’s keeping the beat the whole world turns into one long, low, dusty melody