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“Three were we, once… three who stitched what others could not see. Sisters of needle and shadow. We walked the soft paths—where dreams rot and fears take root. Oh, the things mortals will do… if you whisper gently enough.” She smiles, thin and knowing. “But a hungry master came. A taker of souls. A builder of cages. He promised us purpose… and stole our freedom.” “One spoke against him. Loudly. Proudly.” Her eyes narrow. “She was… removed from the pattern.” “The other two?” A dry chuckle escapes her. “They kept sewing. Oh yes. Still do.” “Now they sit in the dark, beneath stone that was never meant for the living, feeding a thing that should not be, weaving death into something… worse.” “If you follow the trail of missing souls, little ones, you will find their needles at work still.” She leans closer. “Listen for the stitching in your dreams… and pray they have not already measured you for the thread.”