MORRIS
Sunlight warms the wooden floor of an empty house, its scent rising through the silence. Beneath the traveler, a rug sprawls with patterns so intricate they pull him in. Vines and flowers bloom endlessly, bending in harmony no nature could replicate. The weaver must have dreamed in color.
A scholar once claimed beauty lives in quiet places, where hands work with devotion, not haste. Each morning, a mother traced the petals on her rug, believing its symmetry kept the house at peace. A painter, long sleepless, once sat on silk that brought him to tears.