PATHOS
Some knots tighten with sorrow, some lines twist with grief, and some colors bleed from wounds too old to name. Pathos remembers the hands that wove through hunger, the mothers who traced their children's names into patterns unseen, the weavers who worked through wars that stole everything except their threads.
A pattern holds sorrow like a river holds depth—unseen, yet felt. No weave cries for attention. It waits, knowing the right hands will one day pass across its surface and hear what words fail to say.