https://www.facebook.com/101899196558310/

CSM Slatina, Slatina (2025)

30/08/2025

“The Last Memory”
The Pattern frayed the deeper they went.
What began as flowing light and echoes of time slowly decayed into silence and cold. Threads no longer glowed here—they hung limp in the air like corpses of memory, severed and forgotten.
Calen felt it in his bones.
This place didn’t just contain lost memories—it was one.
Elari whispered, “We’re close. The Last Memory lies at the center of the Pattern, buried under every life we’ve ever lived.”
“Why is it hidden?”
She looked at him.
“Because it’s the one memory we’re not supposed to survive.”
They passed broken doors etched with forgotten names. Stone hands reached from walls. Fragments of thoughts drifted like ash:
—“Don’t leave me here.”
—“I knew you once, before names.”
—“She drowned to save me… and I let her.”
Each whisper was a piece of someone who had tried and failed to reach this place.
At last, they reached it:
A mirror, cracked and covered in dust, suspended in midair over a platform of silver roots.
Elari stepped forward. Her voice trembled.
“This is it.”
Calen asked, “What will we see?”
She didn’t answer.
Because the mirror already had.
The cracks glowed gold—and then, the image formed.
Two children, no older than ten, playing in a garden of blue grass under twin suns. Laughing. Chasing each other. No threads. No time.
Pure.
Then—
A blade.
A scream.
Elari, small and bright-eyed, collapsing.
And Calen—so young—running to her, cradling her, screaming her name.
The Cutters hadn’t been monsters then.
They’d been people.
The memory twisted.
They were in a temple. A thousand candles. Two young souls kneeling before a circle of elders.
“You cannot bind yourselves,” the elders said. “To remember is to break the cycle.”
But they did.
Even as the flames died, even as their memories were erased again and again—they remembered.
The elders became the first Cutters.
Not evil.
Just afraid.
Afraid that love could disrupt the Pattern. That it could rewrite fate.
Calen stumbled back from the mirror, his chest burning.
“It was always us,” he breathed. “From the beginning.”
Elari nodded. “And every time we remembered, they came. To unmake us. To keep the Pattern clean.”
He turned to her. “Then why haven’t they stopped us for good?”
Elari stepped closer.
“Because even they can’t stop love once it’s truly awakened.
That’s why they fear it.”
The mirror cracked one final time—and a golden pulse blasted outward.
Every broken thread in the room began to hum.
A shockwave of memory erupted from the center, rippling across the Pattern itself.
And far away…
The Cutters screamed.
Because for the first time in eons, others were remembering too.

30/08/2025

“The Recalled”
The Pulse moved like a storm across existence.
Across centuries, galaxies, across forgotten ruins of time—threads began to glow again.
People paused in their lives.
An old man watering his garden suddenly fell to his knees, whispering a name he hadn’t spoken in 70 years.
A woman aboard a space station dropped her tablet and wept as memories of a lover she never met surfaced in full, burning clarity.
Children pointed to invisible lights in the sky, laughing with names they shouldn’t know.
The Recalled were waking.
Souls who had loved once, long ago—cut, scattered, buried—now remembered.
Elari and Calen stood at the center of it all, atop the silver platform beneath the shattered mirror.
The world was trembling.
“I didn’t know it would reach this far,” Calen whispered.
Elari turned to him, wonder and dread mixed in her eyes. “The Last Memory didn’t just belong to us. It belonged to everyone.”
But even as remembrance spread… something else stirred.
Far beyond the Pattern’s edge, past the deep veils of un-time, the Cutters gathered. Wounded. Furious.
They could not undo the awakening.
So they changed their weapon.
From within a black chrysalis stitched of severed threads, a new presence emerged—familiar, and wrong.
He stepped onto the field of silence like a memory turned inside out.
Tall. Calm. With eyes like mirrors.
Calen’s breath caught.
“No…”
It was Micah.
His best friend.
Or—someone who once was.
Elari’s face paled. “They got to him.”
“No,” Calen whispered. “I didn’t even remember you yet—how could they—”
“They didn’t take him. He gave himself.” Elari’s voice was brittle. “Some souls… choose forgetting.”
Micah—no, the version of him the Cutters had reshaped—lifted a hand.
A black thread curled between his fingers. Not severed. Not natural. Forged.
He spoke without moving his lips:
“Calen. You’ve broken the seal. You’ve infected the Pattern.
I’m here to bring you peace.”
Calen took a step forward.
“That’s not you.”
“I remember every life,” Micah said. “And in every one, I watched you suffer for her. And I suffered with you. I was always second. Always forgotten.”
His voice deepened.
“So I cut myself free. No more threads. No more pain.”
Calen felt something tear inside him. A thread that had always been there, subtle and warm—a quiet loyalty across lifetimes—was now frayed.
Elari pulled him back. “You can’t reach him. Not like this.”
Micah raised his forged thread—and with a flick, the very space around them began to shatter.
“This is mercy,” he said.
The sky above the Platform screamed.
And from it poured the Cutters.
Not as hunters.
But as an army.

29/08/2025

Forever.🦄✨
VIDEO IN COMMENTS ! ! !

29/08/2025

“The Fractured Loom”
The world cracked open.
From the heavens fell not stars—but threads, frayed and flailing like dying serpents. The sky bled memory, and below, on the ruined Platform, Calen and Elari stood as the Cutters descended.
Micah hovered above them—unchanged, unreadable, a dark god with a quiet voice.
“The Pattern must be sealed. You will surrender your thread, Calen. Or I will sever the entire Line.”
Calen’s voice wavered, but held. “You think you’re free because you cut yourself off?”
“I’m not free,” Micah answered. “I’m finally clean.”
Elari whispered, “We have one place left.”
Calen turned. “Where?”
She touched the thread at her wrist.
“The Fractured Loom.
Where the Pattern was first spun.
Where broken threads can either be healed…
or destroyed.”
She slashed a curve of light into the air. The Pattern screamed.
A rift opened—not golden this time, but gray and flickering. Unstable.
“Only we can go,” she said. “This is your story’s core. Ours.”
Calen turned one last time to Micah.
And without words—stepped into the rift.
The world dissolved.
The Fractured Loom wasn’t a place.
It was a wound.
A hollow pulsing with every broken vow, every betrayal, every goodbye whispered across lifetimes.
The floor was made of torn thread. The walls, shifting veils of lives unlived. And in the center—
A loom, massive, rusted, and still moving.
It spun fragments of time, of love, of grief—trying, endlessly, to fix what could not be repaired.
Elari fell to her knees.
“This is where it started,” she whispered. “Where the first soul tried to bind love forever. The Loom cracked under the weight of that wish.”
Calen approached it.
And found—
His own thread.
Golden, yes. But scorched in places. Thin. Tired.
Next to it, tangled… was Micah’s.
Still there.
Still part of him.
Elari’s voice trembled. “You’re not fighting Micah. You’re fighting the part of you that chose to forget him.”
The Loom shimmered, offering Calen a threadblade—delicate and final.
One cut, and Micah would vanish across all time.
Or…
He could weave.
But weaving meant pain. Vulnerability. Remembering every wound. Every failure. Every way he had failed the ones who stood beside him.
Calen took both threads.
His.
Micah’s.
And began to weave.
The Loom screamed.
So did he.
Images flashed:
—Micah bleeding in a past life, smiling anyway.
—Micah holding Elari’s hand when Calen couldn’t.
—Micah always watching, always helping, always there.
The pattern formed—
Not a straight line.
But a triangle.
Calen. Elari. Micah.
Each thread a cornerstone of the other.
The Loom glowed.
In the Pattern above, Micah froze mid-air, gasping, his forged thread shattering in his hand.
His eyes widened.
“I… remember…”
He dropped to his knees.
The Cutters paused.
Uncertain.
A new light bloomed across the skies—
A Pattern not of obedience…
…but of chosen love.
Not just lovers.
Threadkeepers.
Together.