Red Thread is a story written by Valerie Binder.
It traced and strung itself through countless places. Lacing its delicate form around every corner in lovely tricks and patterns of intricacy. Entwining itself in the midst of every passing thing – as large as a towering mountain, building barriers between earth and sky, and as small as a miniscule loop-de-loop around the slender neck of a blade of grass.
Weaving, winding, threading constantly through every place imaginable. Finding paths of travel in between the cracks of cobblestone streets, twining around tall lampposts, soft aglow in the fall of twilights, illuminating the avenues they line. Stringing and circling through doorknobs and keyholes, around table legs and through the lace in the curtains of kitchen windows, it made its path. A crimson trace, a scarlet line.
The red thread.
Timeless and infinite.
Delicate and invincible.
Existing in its elaborate simplicity to carry out its sedulous design.
With careful purpose it laced itself around her. Strung through her hair, traveling down her shoulders and around her waist, and tangling around her leg. Then, with flawless immaculacy, tied itself in an unbreakable knot around her ankle.
With precise intent, it threaded itself through his fingers. Traveling up his strong, sure arms, encircling his shoulders, and hanging from his back, down towards his own ankle. With mirrored care and elegance, an identical knot of identical strength was tied.
And from that very moment on, the thread began to shorten. And tighten. Pull clean all of its loops and straighten out its knots. Shorter, shorter, closer to the moment of impact, the moment of change. Closer to sideways smiles and steps of waltzes, to gestures of ardour and late nights under star-filled skies, and to discovering life as a whole new entity, now in the company of the thread’s other side.
She sits in a library, immersed in studious focus. Crisp, smart blue eyes acting in coordinative concentration with her quick writing fingers, brushing aside strands of dark gold hair which brightens under the rays of filtering sunlight.
She is beautiful, but she doesn’t know.
He sits, not too far away, balancing his time between his own focus, and glances at her; his warm, bright eyes darting up every minute.
Their thread is but metres long.
As if he feels the pull around his ankle, he stands.
His feet move in her direction, following the natural pull of the scarlet line, allowing it to shorten and tighten, continuously closing the space between them.
The moment approaches – the moment in which the thread is so short, so tight, just seconds away from the moment of impact. From the moment where everything changes. And from the beginning of everything after.
Then one, final pull of the thread – and upon the word “Hello,” the impact of their meeting is equivalent to that of the paths of two traveling comets colliding and bursting into an opus of light and possibilities. Soaring colours of promises and dreams, of winter nights and autumn leaves, and of brushing lips like strokes of paint on a masterpiece stream through the still spirits of the library, illuminating every corner, every page of future chapters, and every little thing.
It can only be described as simply … perfection.
For this red thread, it connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance.
The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.
“...connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break” (Chinese proverb)
By Valerie Binder