Three old women and a ball of twine. They say I hold wisdom, and they cannot stay. They wonder if, perchance, I’d like a ball of twine? For a small fee, of course, of course. They must pay Him who rows the boat to eternity. Even eldritch beings like to treat themselves, I suppose.
There is nothing special about the twine, I think. It is coarse and rough like wool, but I do not hold comfort to any importance. I accept, and now I have a ball of twine.
My bag holds two knitting needles and a ball of twine, and so I knit. A scarf of stories is complete, and I cut the line. Death for one. A beanie of those who came before. I don it, and I cut the line. Death for another. And once my closet is filled and I am warm and itching, the sun goes down one final time. Death for the last.