The artificial gold of the sky was beginning to curdle into a sickly, bruised purple. It wasn't the natural purple of a twilight sky, but the color of a fading bruise on the face of the world. Ren Hanshin sat on the edge of the shrine's porch, his legs dangling over the side. His right arm was still a blackened branch of dead nerves, but he didn't hide it anymore. It was a scar of the earth, a price paid in full.
[Divine Mana: 2 / 150]
[Synchronization: 49.996%]
The red numbers were so close to the edge that they stayed steady, a constant reminder that his soul was a glass house in a hailstorm. The Weaver was quiet—too quiet. He could feel her watching through his eyes, her presence like a cold silk shroud wrapped tight around his heart. He was still carving the wooden spoon. The shape was finally there, rounded, smooth, and simple. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever made because it had no purpose other than to be a spoon. It just held whatever you put in it.
