Thin spindles of silk hang in the corners.
Dust clings to them, ignored for years, decades even.
Dim light filters through grimy, broken windows littering the floor with broken shards of light.
Frost hangs in the corners and winter makes it's slow approach.
Warm wind fades to cool breezes that fall to stinging gusts of ice.
A man huddles in the corner, half frozen. Close to death. Transfixed by the cobwebs in the corner.
He mutters the same few sentences over, and over, and over once more.
Some would call him crazy. Homeless. Sick. Deranged.
His frail ears wouldn't pick up the sound anyway.
Stronger than steel. Smaller than thread. Holding together till the end.
Stronger than steel. Smaller than thread. Holding together till the end.
He chants until his voice goes raw.
Until the effort of speaking is too much.
Soon, he is silent, but the words echo in his head.
The cobwebs in the corner catch the dusty light as the door creaks open.
Boots thunder on the soil floor. Men rush in, hunch over him, call to one another, talk to him.
He stays silent, holding onto life like a spider's web; by a thin, stretching thread.
It is warm when he wakes up. The light is brighter;whiter than the cottage's ever was before. Nurses bustle back and forth. He's too weak to say a word.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Then strength. Ounce by ounce, it returns to his bones. His muscles. His heart. His soul.
Much later, a woman reaches for the corner of his room, swatting at a tiny, abandoned web.
"No." He croaks. The sound startles her and she stops.
"I don't mind them. They kept me safe."
She eyes him with confusion but backs away from the webs.
"They teach us. Stronger than steel, smaller than thread, holding together till the end." His voice is a whisper as she inches to his bedside.
"Just when you think it can bear no more, it proves you wrong, even when it's been forgotten." He whispers as he falls asleep.
The woman shuffles out, careful not to disturb the man or his cobwebs.
