rivermakes's Links
Myrren has never tried to unravel Patch—not their seams, nor the silences stitched between them. There are many kinds of brokenness, and not all of them are meant to be healed. Some are simply meant to be witnessed.
Patch is quiet, but not empty. Myrren sees the way they tilt their head at birdsong, how they linger near glider ramps but never step on them. They see the sorrow in Patch—not loud or dramatic, but worn into their fur, like an old threadbare blanket still clinging to warmth.
They never ask where they came from.
Instead, they hum when they work, because Patch hums back. They light lanterns earlier when the forest feels heavy, because Patch always arrives before the dark.
To Myrren, Patch is not a mystery to solve. They are a soft and steady presence. A kindness made quiet. A story that still chooses to stay.
Patch doesn’t have words for what Myrren is to them—only a quiet place in their chest that feels less tight when Myrren is near.
When Myrren moves, Patch watches. When they speak, they don’t understand the words, but they hear the shape of them, soft and slow like thread drawn through cloth. Myrren doesn't flinch when they blink too slowly or tilts their head too far. They don’t try to fix their seams.
They bring Myrren things sometimes—wilted leaves, smooth stones, broken feathers—gifts with meanings they can’t name. Myrren always accepts them, always nods. Once, they even tied a small scent ribbon to their frayed wrist.
They didn’t know why it mattered. But after that, they hummed a little louder.