Through the Mirror of Golden Threads
The breath before the leap. The flicker before the flame.
Authors Note: Readers, welcome to the first Stand-Alone chapter. As you see, the vote from Chapter 6 in the Whispers in the Well story has caused time to split before you. In this single story, you will understand more of the depths of what CHOOSE YOUR DESINTY is really all about. And remember, the choice is yours and your alone.
You don’t remember deciding to touch the mirror. You only remember the moment your fingers met its surface—and it rippled.
Not like glass breaking. Like breathing water.
And now, you’re here. Not quite standing, not quite floating. The air isn’t air—it smells of stardust and ancient paper, and every breath feels like a memory you never lived. Light bends around you in soft, honey-colored arcs. The world looks like a dream half-remembered from childhood—half majestic painting, half lucid nightmare.
Before you, the mirror still shimmers—except now, it isn’t a reflection.
It’s a window.
And within it: Her.
She stands tall within the silver sheen, not bound by the frame, not confined by any rules of physics. Time swirls around her ankles like mist. Her golden curls cascade like silk ribbons dipped in starlight, each strand coiled with its own slow orbit. Her skin glows—not with youth, not with glamour, but with ancient intelligence. Like moonlight had a mind of its own and decided to take human shape.
Her eyes… oh, her eyes. They’re not just looking at you—they’re remembering you.
Green ancient galaxies spiral in her irises. You swear you see constellations shifting in real time across her gaze.
You take a step closer.
And the mirror exhales.
The silver dissolves like fog, and she steps forward—out of it—as if she was never in it to begin with. She doesn’t walk. She unfolds.
“I was wondering when you’d find your way back,” she says, and the sound of it coats your skin like warm rain.
You want to ask her how she knows you. You want to ask her where you are. You want to ask a thousand questions at once—but your mouth doesn’t seem to be on speaking terms with your brain right now.
She reads this in your silence. Of course she does.
“This place exists between stories,” she says, her voice curling around you like a shawl.
“Between dreams. Between choices.”
You finally manage to stammer, “What… what is this place?”
She tilts her head slightly.
“A thread,” she answers. “You’ve stepped into a golden thread.”
Before you can question her meaning, the world shifts again. The floor (if there was a floor) melts into a spinning sea of threads—glistening golden cords stretching in all directions. Some shimmer. Some smoke. Some are frayed and twitching. And some… are singing.
Above you, an enormous loom materializes. Not a loom like Grandma’s knitting corner—this thing is celestial. Cosmic. A living map of possibility. The tapestry it weaves is as wide as the sky and as intricate as a spider’s daydream.
And you’re standing in the middle of it.
The beautiful woman lifts her hand, and a pulse of energy spirals from her palm, illuminating a single thread that hums beneath your feet. It splits into two directions.
“You’ve always had many destinies,” she murmurs.
“But you’ve been walking through them blind.”
You stare at the split in the thread—one glowing gold, soft and warm; the other flickering violet, crackling like stormlight.
“I don’t understand,” you say.
“Am I dead?”
“No,” she smiles.
“You’re dreaming. But not the way humans dream. You are in the place that exists just before choice. The breath before the leap. The flicker before the flame.”
The idea should be terrifying.
But somehow, it isn’t.
Because you remember this. Not with your mind, but your essence. Like your soul is leaning forward, saying yes, this again.
The woman steps toward you, and you notice her bare feet float just above the ground. Each step sends ripples through the threads beneath her.
“I’ve been guiding many like you for eons,” she says softly.
“But few have made it this far with their memory intact. Most forget. Most… choose the easy sleep.”
She reaches out her hand to you.
“You’re one of the rare ones. A soul with access to the Loom, the Threads, and the capacity to choose between all timelines.”
Your heart skips.
“But I’m just—” you begin.
“No,” she interrupts, voice sharp but not unkind.
“That’s what they told you. That you’re small. That your life is random. That your fate is sealed. That Destiny isn't yours to choose.”
She smiles again, and this time there’s mischief behind it.
“They lied. You are the thread and the hand that weaves it.”
Behind her, the Loom pulses.
You look again at the two paths before you.
“Which one is the right one?” you whisper.
She laughs, light and rich like the chime of temple bells.
“There is no right. All paths lead home. Some are more scenic. Some are more dangerous. All are yours.”
She begins to fade, her light dissolving into the weft of the Loom.
Her voice lingers: “I will always be with you when a choice presents itself. Sometimes a whisper. Sometimes a dream. But always—always—you.”
You blink.
And the mirror is just a mirror again.
But there, at your feet, is a single golden thread.
It splits.
And now… you choose.
The purple thread leads back through the mirror of which you came and the golden starlight asks you to make wish and follow your dreams.