The Weaver of the Storm
When it rained in the Valley of Threads, it never poured water. It poured spiders. They were tiny—no larger than raindrops—but their silken strands caught the light like falling stars. To most, “spider rain” was a curse. Roofs sagged under webs, travelers hid beneath cloaks, and the air shimmered with the quiet industry of millions of minute legs. But to Pella , the smallest of people, it was a miracle. Pella lived in a hollow reed by the riverside, so slight that even the frogs mistook her for a gnat. Her world was a tangle of roots and dew, a place where distance was measured in petals and wind gusts could carry her whole life away. She longed to travel—to see the mountain of glass, the orchard that hummed, the faraway lights that people called cities—but her feet could only take her so far before dusk. Then came the storm. The first spider fell upon her roof like a bead of night, its web still glistening. Pella did not scream as others might; instead, she offered the creature a...