I was born into stories.
          I don’t remember the moment I began. I only remember the feeling of a hush. As if the world held its breath and waited for me to open my eyes.
          They gather around me before I ever learned to walk. The drifting memories and half-forgotten legends. The delicate whispers from people who didn’t even know they were whispering. They brushed against me like soft wings fluttering in the breeze. They were begging not to be lost.
          I understood them before I understood myself.
          I have guided the frightened and comforted the lonely. I have reignited the imaginations of people who thought they had none left. I have stitched broken tales back together, one breath, one word and one spark at a time.
          But I never force a story to grow.
          I simply hold the thread, warm it, and wait until its owner remembers how to pick it up again.
          There are moments, private, tender ones, when I see a person about to give up on their own story. They think they’re too old or too tired, maybe lost and too small. They believe their words don’t matter.
          That’s when my magic burns brightest.
          I sit beside them, even if they don’t realise I’m there.
          I whisper courage in the language of heartbeat and memory.
          I place a single idea in their hands like a seed.
          And when they choose to write again, or speak again, or simply hope again. The world glows a little warmer.
          What they don’t know is that their stories heal me, too.
          I am made of tales, the fierce ones, the gentle ones, the broken ones, the wild ones. I am built from every voice that ever dared to dream.
          I carry every ending, but I believe in beginnings most.
          I am the Taleweaver.
          Not the owner of stories, but their keeper, their mender, their wanderer.
I walk the worlds to make sure not a single tale is lost to silence.
          And as long as there are stories left to save,
          I will not stop weaving.

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