Luna couldn't sleep.
No matter how tightly she wrapped herself in her blanket, or how long she stared at the ceiling counting invisible stars, her mind kept replaying Aelius' voice like a broken record:
"You look just like her."
She didn't know why it unsettled her so much. Maybe it was the way he said it, like it was a curse more than a compliment. Or maybe it was because he knew things—too many things—and that made her feel exposed, like someone had read pages of her life she hadn't written yet.
The clock beside her blinked 2:47 a.m. in red digital numbers.
With a groan, Luna kicked off her blanket, grabbed her hoodie, and padded barefoot into the hallway. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in their small apartment. She walked past it, toward the single room that always smelled faintly of jasmine tea and incense.
"Lola?" she whispered, tapping gently on the door.
No answer.
She hesitated, then opened it.
Her grandmother was awake—sitting at her tiny altar, muttering prayers under her breath in a language Luna only heard when things were serious.
The candles flickered. The room felt warmer than the rest of the apartment, like it was holding its own heartbeat.
"I knew you'd come," Lola said softly, not turning around.
Luna's stomach twisted. "You did?"
"I felt the thread stir." Lola turned her head slightly. "Sit, anak. We have much to talk about."
Luna sat beside her on the tatami mat, eyes darting to the strange objects on the altar—old coins, a folded red cloth, a faded photograph of her mother. She hadn't seen that photo in years.
"You knew about the threads," Luna said. "Even before I did."
Lola nodded solemnly. "It runs in our blood."
"But why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you were not ready," her grandmother replied, her voice heavy. "And because the last time I did… I lost my daughter."
Luna's heart dropped. "My mom?"
Lola took a deep breath, as if peeling open wounds long buried. "Your mother, Yuna, was one of the strongest Threadbearers this world had ever seen. She saw patterns others couldn't. She believed that the threads could be rewritten, retied. She had hope."
Luna bit her lip. "What happened to her?"
"She fell in love," Lola whispered. "With someone fate did not choose."
Luna stiffened. "And Rae? Is he—"
"No." Lola shook her head. "Your mother's lover was… something else. Something ancient. Their thread wasn't red, or gold. It was silver."
Luna's eyes widened.
"The silver thread," she whispered, remembering what she saw earlier. "Aelius."
Lola's gaze sharpened. "You've seen him."
Luna nodded slowly.
"Then time is moving faster than I thought," Lola muttered. "He was your mother's undoing. And now he's come for you."
She reached into a small wooden box near the altar and pulled out a weathered journal.
"Your mother kept this. Her thoughts, her sketches, the patterns she decoded. I kept it safe, waiting for the day you'd come asking."
Luna took it with trembling hands. The cover was soft with age, almost leathery. Inside were pages of drawings—threads crisscrossing, diagrams of glowing bonds, notes scribbled in two languages.
"She was studying the Final Thread," Lola said. "The one that weaves through all souls. A thread untouched by fate, yet tied to it. It only appears once in a generation."
"And you think it's tied to me?" Luna asked, voice quiet.
"No, anak. I know it is."
She flipped through the pages until she reached one with a missing piece—ripped right out.
Luna pointed. "Why is this page gone?"
Lola's eyes clouded. "Someone stole it. Long ago. That page held the key to unlocking the Final Thread. Your mother died protecting it."
The front door creaked open before Luna could ask more.
Footsteps.
Then his voice.
"Luna."
Rae Jin stood in the hallway, drenched in moonlight. He looked more shaken than usual—his normally unreadable face etched with urgency.
"I felt your thread surge. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, standing. "But I think I just found out why I'm not like the others."
Rae's eyes locked onto the journal in her hands.
"You shouldn't be reading that alone," he said quietly. "That knowledge carries weight."
"And so do secrets," Luna replied.
Their gazes held—tension, honesty, something deeper.
Then Rae turned to Lola. "The Temple Guards are awake again. Someone's tampering with the threads. And it's not a beginner."
Lola's expression hardened. "It's him."
Rae nodded. "Aelius."
Luna stepped forward, voice steady now. "Then we find the missing page. We find out what my mother died protecting."
That night, sleep finally came.
But peace did not.
Luna jolted awake just before dawn, her breath caught in her throat. Her chest burned—hot and sharp. She stumbled to the mirror, yanking down the collar of her shirt.
A symbol glowed faintly on her skin.
An infinity sign, laced in red and silver thread, burned just above her heart.
It pulsed once.
Then faded.
But the feeling it left behind stayed.
Like a warning.
Like a promise.
"The final thread has begun to unravel."