![IMG_20201110_163642.jpg](https://images.hive.blog/DQmWjkzBqpJDt57Q4LVXC563vKWHtao2gyb9z8G1X6hMSt2/IMG_20201110_163642.jpg)

A woman is sitting in a wooden chair on the dusty end of the earth, where the only light of dawn is faintly perceived. But this is not a throne; she is not a queen. Not even a rocking chair; He is not a Crown. It is a wooden chair that can be found anywhere globally and is readily available everywhere.

Straight-backed and sitting for long periods, now she feels uncomfortable. While she was seated, a cat was sleeping lazily at his feet; a bright flame illuminating his workplace, illuminating the surroundings in imaginative colors. There is a scene playing and a few people who are still just standing on their feet. Their toes point together, and when they reach their head, they will face each other.

Long ago, she was something, but she retired quietly, comfortably, away from worship and encouragement. Earth loves the dim light on her sleeve, loves the chair that hurts her back and her lazy cat. Watching the play of scenes is peaceful and comfortable. When he finishes a tapestry, he sets it outside to join countless others. The colors will bleed in time. The scene fibers will break and crumble and merge with the dust that surrounds its quiet, lonely little space.

Once the cat stretches out and before watching her work ask in his tiny voice, do you want the scenes to happen, the way it happens? She stopped her work and frowned at him. Does it matter? But it's more than that, he would argue, but he didn't get the chance because she had to agree. The pure joy of creating something was more valuable than life, which it did or did not affect.

What she weaved could not help her. Maybe she was just a reflection of what was happening somewhere in the world, or perhaps she was in control of someone else weaving her tapestry. She took the cat because she wanted minimal companionship.

When she stops feeding or petting him, it reminds her that time is running out. Other than that, She couldn't help but feel the kinship for the little animal. She praised him for wandering around at the end of her time.

Don't you see I'm fine, "the cat said. He was standing behind her, but his voice sounded as if he were under her. Talking from her feet." It doesn't matter. "Hid voice floated in the air and told her; before he could say anything, she saw them sitting there, as if she were in another car in the parking lot next to them, or looking at them on the school bus. She saw them from every angle, the weaver and her cat.