The Fates

In a room where time forgets itself,
three women sit with eternity in their laps.
One hums softly, fingers gentle as dawn,
spinning golden thread from the quiet between heartbeats.

One measures.
She does not smile, but she is not cruel.
She knows the length of every laugh,
the weight of every goodbye,
the exact moment a life becomes a story.

And the last…
she holds the shears like winter holds the last leaf.
Not in anger.
Not in haste.
Only in certainty.

Together they work
by candlelight and starlight and the small, trembling light
of human choices.

They do not decide who you love,
or whether you are brave,
or if you speak when your voice shakes.
They only hold the thread.

You —
you are the one who makes it burn,
knot, tangle, shimmer,
stretch across oceans,
wrap around other souls,
or snap long before its time.

And when the final thread is lifted,
when the last breath leaves like a closing door,
they do not weep.

But sometimes,
if the life was particularly bright,
the one who spins will touch the empty air
as if she still feels the thread there,
warm in her hands.