die weberin

She weaves more than threads—she weaves time. Each color on her loom feels like a season, a memory, a wish someone forgot to speak aloud. Her eyes sparkle with mischief and tenderness, as if she knows every story and still loves hearing them again. Around her, the glow is not just candlelight—it’s home. The beads, the wool, the hanging trinkets... they hum with quiet joy. You don’t need to understand her language. Her silence speaks. And it tells you this: magic doesn’t shout—it weaves.