A woman sits at a loom in a room suspended between two seasons—cherry blossoms drift through one window, while snowflakes melt on the sill of another. Her threads are made of spider silk and twilight, weaving a tapestry that shows glimpses of lives she’s never lived: a samurai who never drew his sword, a poet who burned all their verses, a child who grew up in a house with no doors. The loom’s shadow stretches long, forming the silhouette of a fox with nine tails, watching. Paint her as if she’s both the weaver and the thread, caught in the act of unraveling herself.