Weaver

Mrs. Winter worked the fire until it caught and placed her favorite kettle on the grate. She had put a length of repurposed wool at the drafty lower edge of every door and the tiny cottage felt cozy enough. Mrs. Winter put her favorite lap blanket next to her weaving frame and all of her winders, threaders, shuttles, and hooks. "Well, this is just fine," she whispered, having made some tea at last and settling in. So many had checked on her, presuming her lonely, and offered her rides and meals and bits of hospitality; she always hugged them - they were kind and lovely, and she would weave them first. Mrs. Winter entered the land of dreams much as anyone would a trancelike state and began to read their hearts' desires. She would catch their fragments, bringing bits of this and that together to form a picture of What Was and work it just a bit with What Could Be. If she could fill a hole in the fabric of someone, she tried her best; but, if it was something that had to remain, she'd add a decorative edge and make it special in a new way. Mrs. Winter had done this always (would do this always), working hard in the dark and cold months to take a rest in the spring. "Sleep," she whispered to the world, "and give your worries here."