By Ellie Crystal adapted from a story by Marc Maramay. Image by Marc Maramay.

Once, an old woman found a thread that led her to a new life.

That morning, as she looked out the window, the day did not look promising. Ominous gray clouds hung low overhead as a few drops of rain fell on the windowpane confirming her suspicions.

The old woman looked out of the window again, in the hope that the day might brighten.

A loose thread at the edge of her carpet caught her attention. It looked untidy, so she tucked it 'under the rug' and went to make coffee, as she was still trying to wake up.

A little later, her black cat tried to attract her attention, but the old woman turned on the morning news instead, her eyes fixed on the TV screen, with its gloomy reports and streaming fearful images. Meanwhile, her nervous fingers were busy knitting, making a dark colored scarf that she had been knitting as far back as she could remember.

She drank her coffee black but still couldnąt seem to wake up. Suddenly a high-pitched sound from her cat jerked her fully awake.

She looked around, to find that the cat was playing with something. Her cat always seemed to find something to amuse herself, and she seemed to be having a fine time. The woman couldnąt see what the cat was playing with but true to her emotional state, she suspected the worst. Her curiosity awakened, she flicked off the TV and went to investigate.

The cat had something wrapped around its paws. When the woman bent down, she could see it was a dull and dusty thread. It had obviously been pulled out of the carpet as more was unraveling as she watched. She quickly grabbed the thread and began to scold the cat, but stopped suddenly when she saw a glint of gold between her fingers. Where she had touched the thread, the dust had rubbed off and she saw that the thread glinted gold, yet she had never noticed any golden threads in the carpet before.

Maybe they had been buried under layers of dust and dirt, she thought.

In truth, the carpet had seen better days, and was worn and frayed in many places, with a few patches and repairs. But its intricate design was still fascinating as it must have been quite spectacular in its heyday. Still, she couldn't remember any gold threads among its design.

The cat happily went back to tugging the thread, which ran through the woman's fingers and seemed to glint a little brighter.

The gold thread, though fascinating, looked untidy, so the old woman gave it a few tugs to try to pull it free. Much to her surprise, the thread got longer, so she gave it a stronger tug, but it got longer still.

She became worried that she was unraveling the carpet. Could this thread have some important job to do, unknown to her? she wondered.

Lifting up the carpet a little, she examined the back; no, there was not a sign of this perplexing thread. Yet there it was, seemingly coming from nowhere and stretching endlessly.

She unwound the golden thread from her cat's paw, and wondered what to do, as the thread did not seem to originate from the carpet at all.

She wondered if it was possible to get the thread into the carpet somehow, so she got down on all fours and looked closely at the design of the weave. Closer and closer she looked, examining the ways the threads fitted together, their intricacy, their complex beauty, the way the little patterns fitted within a greater design.

She couldnąt remember ever looking at it so closely until ... she suddenly remembered when she had last done this as a child, playing on the carpet when it was fresh and new, its colors fresh and vibrant, wriggling and crawling across what seemed like a vast expanse, a whole world in itself.

As she grew through childhood, she had played her games on its soft surface, and when her friends had come, they had scattered their toys across it. The carpet had coped with their rough-and-tumble play, with snags and spills, and the wear and tear from lively children and family life.

As the years passed, her children had played on it in their turn. Oh, it had known plenty of dramas. What stories it could tell! All of its history was somewhere in its threads, including her own. So many times, she had rested on it, sat down or lain on it. And she had dreamed here, she had imagined so much, yet had she ever seen such a golden thread? Perhaps, in the distant past, if only she could remember ...

The cat went to her, purring, and looked up into her face. The green-eyed cat watched the old woman with renewed curiosity. How cat-like the old woman's green eye suddenly appeared. The woman had a distant look in her now feline eyes as she smiled down at her old, furry friend.

The old woman picked up the golden thread again and began to wrap it around her fingers in a cat's cradle. As she did, more of it began to appear, so she began to wrap faster until she was making a figure eight, which grew thicker and brighter by the moment.

The womanąs face gradually brightened as she worked, forming the golden ball of thread between her fingers. It seemed that the more she wanted to get to the end of it, the more of was appearing.

If magic was golden, the old women held the gift of the magi in her hands.

It wasn't long before this glowing globe had grown as big as a football. It was certainly big, yet so light; its glow lighting up the entire room.

She considered what she might do with the golden ball of light. She couldnąt roll it under the carpet as it was way too big. Soon it grew too large to fit on the mantelpiece. Perhaps she could give it to someone who could weave something from it ... a golden fabric or veil? At the rate the golden thread was appearing, there would soon be enough to make a full-length robe but she wasn't sure if she'd ever dare to wear it and hadn't been to a party in time too long to remember.

She wondered how long much long the golden thread would continue to grow as she continued to wind it wondering what to do. Could she keep drawing it out forever? Should she just cut it and that would be the end of it?

Exhausted, she decided to stop for a while. She laid the shining sphere on the carpet and went to the kitchen.

Meanwhile, her cat played with the golden ball, rolling it this way and that, leaping on top of it, balancing herself, then making it travel across the carpetąs complex design, lighting up the patterns along the way.

From the kitchen, the woman heard her cat make a very strange sound, so she hurried back to the room. The golden ball was apparently gone! She felt disappointed and checked if it had rolled into a corner, but, no, there was not a sign of it. As the window was closed, there seemed to be nowhere for it to go. The cat looked at her with eyes wide open.

The woman suddenly realized that the room was filling with a soft glow. She looked out of the window, as everything outside seemed more golden too. She told herself that her eyes must be playing tricks on her.

When the woman returned her stare to the carpet. It too looked different. Its colors looked livelier and the patterns had a new life to them. Both were beginning to flow, as if something new was moving through them. This old carpet had a definite glow to it now; it seemed to be coming to life.

She suddenly glimpsed the golden thread in the weave of the carpet, glinting subtly in the midst of it all. She noticed it shimmering in the air in the room, moving through the walls, stretching up through the ceiling ... and moving through her, too!

The green eyes of her cat had a golden glint in them her fur glistening.

When the woman looked into the mirror, there were golden threads glinting between the silver threads of her hair and shimmering between the lines of her face and the fabric of her skin.

Her attention was drawn to a thread that led out of the room. She followed it, and her cat followed her, down the corridor to the front door.

When she opened it, what a sight she beheld! There were shining threads everywhere, connecting everything that she could see, and every person in the street had threads of gold reaching out of them and stretching back to them, connecting them to all. She felt almost overcome by the wonder of it, and sat on the threshold with her cat beside her, looking at the play of the subtle light that shone through everything.

What a web it was, shining through the trees and the people, moving through the world before her, from the tumbling clouds, down into the ground beneath her. It wasnąt just the clouds that had a golden lining, everything else had, too; this golden web didnąt seem to have any end to it. And it had all kinds of colors shimmering within it, more than she had ever seen before. She wouldnąt have believed it, if she hadnąt seen it with her own eyes. And when she looked down, there were golden threads pouring out of her own heart, spiraling out in all directions.

Noises from the playground in the park, a block away, caught her attention. She hadn't been there for so long. She took her bag of wools and needles and glanced at the scarf she had been working on. It looked so dull to her now that she left it behind and decided to start a new one.

In the middle of the park was an old oak tree with benches all around it that gave a perfect view of everything. She sat down and began to knit a new pattern.

It wasnąt long before the Sun came out.

The children were surprised to see her there. Some of them had been a little afraid of her, this strange one wrapped in dark colors, who always kept to herself, who didn't seem to smile or speak to anyone much. She certainly looked happy about something today, but none of them could tell what it was. Maybe it was her birthday, suggested one girl, who was smart about these kinds of things. When a balloon-seller passed by, the grandmother couldnąt help buying one of every color, and when she tied them to the bench, the bright spheres floated in the breeze amongst the branches. The girl was sure then sheąd guessed right. Though it looked like nobody else was coming to her party, the old woman looked as happy as can be.

The old woman's hands were whirring away as something colorful was appearing between them.

Before she left the park that day, she let one of the balloons go ... It floated up through the branches of the tree, surprising more than a few birds on its ascent. She gave the other balloons away, one by one, and when the girl walked past, she got one, too.

Every day after that, she returned to the park with her knitting.

The young girl became intrigued by this woman and her ways, watching the woman's fingers as they whirred away, surprised by their speed and dexterity.

Sometimes the old woman watched the activities in the playground, sometimes feeding the birds, sometimes singing to herself, some strange unknown tune. They must be from some other time, the girl reasoned.

Most of the time she just sat there knitting scarfs, the pattern becoming wilder, the colors more vibrant, curling up beside her on the bench under the tree, like a sleeping snake.

Every day, the old woman and the girl said hello, but neither could think of much else to say.

One day, the woman brought the black cat with her, and the girl couldn't resist coming over. As the girl played with the cat and chatted, the woman cast off the last stitches of a rainbow scarf.

The old woman asked the girl if she would like to have a scarf made especially for her.

"Thank you, yes," said the girl her smile reflecting something special that was to be given to her. "What will it look like?"

"Wait and see," the old woman said. "My scarves are always a surprise."

The old woman looked into the child's smiling face and her clear crystal eyes. She wondered what colors would suit her unique beauty, what patterns would reflect her perfection, what possible creation would be beautiful enough for her? She looked into the worn and battered bag she had by her side. One glance at the wools there, and she realized that her present selection wouldnąt do at all, even though it had seemed quite colorful a moment before.

She went off to the wool shop, and found all sorts of colors she had never noticed before. Iridescent fibers, pearly and opalescent threads ... oh, the options seemed endless.

From that day forth when passers-by glanced into her bag they saw shimmering balls of wool in a rainbow of different colors - azure blue and kingfisher, fawn and foxy red, ice white and raven black, deep indigo and bullfrog green, sunny gold and quicksilver.

She had expanded her palette, the seams of her bag stretched to their limit by the colors bursting to get out!

Each day in the park, the girl watched her scarf taking shape and coming more to life, until the morning came when she came to the tree and the old woman sat on the bench with a finely wrapped parcel on her lap.

When the girl opened it, it was as if she had never laid eyes on the scarf before. It had transformed taking on a life of its own. Interwoven in its graceful flow of colors, there were exquisite crystal patterns, and bright diamond designs that somehow seemed to mirror her. There was fine sewing too, with beads and sequins that glinted and hinted. The old woman had revealed a whole hidden rainbow of potentials, mapped out in patterns that seemed to speak her name.

Thought it was summer, and a hot day at that, the girl wrapped herself in the scarf, then wrapped her arms around the old woman and thanked her from her heart.

The duo heard music by the park gate. The girl ran off returning with two ice cream cones.

They sat in the sunshine, side by side, the girl wrapped in her scarf as they shared ice cream and the wisdom of the day.

It was not long before the girl asked the old woman if she could try her hands at the craft.

The old woman guided the girl's fingers through their faltering phase, until they began to move smoothly and found a rhythm of their own. The old woman could see the girl's face brightening as she watched the patterns appear between her fingers.

Soon, the stitches seemed to fall into place as if by themselves. It was plain to see that this girl had a gift, perhaps activated by the scarf or perhaps something that was innate to her.

One day, when it was raining everywhere but under the tree, the girl's friends found shelter there. They watched her and the old woman knitting away, while they swapped stories. It wasnąt long before curiosity got the better of them and they tried a stitch or two.

Soon, the old woman had quite a few youngsters in her close-knit circle under the tree guiding their fingers as they created something new.

The old woman's stories kept them entertained, tales of her wild youth, suitably edited, holding them spellbound.

She would hum to herself in the music of her heart which went into the patterns as well. She sang strands of old songs and some new that she had learned from her young friends.

Vibrant, singing gold threads like those of a harp, spooled from her heart in a color that you can't buy in a shop, but one that is always available and never runs out.

Between the fibers was a lot of love the children shared as they created.

By the time the acorns started falling, the little circle of friends had quite a few creations to display. When the autumn winds blew in, the old woman finished scarves for each child that reflected their true colors, the ones that she could see, sometimes better than they could, and expressing the bright potentials she saw in each of them.

When winter came, each child wore their scarf with a kind of pride that warmed her heart. With her new friends, the old woman knew winter would not be as long and lonely this year.

One chilly winter day, while sitting by the pond feeding the swans and ducks, a bright ball of wool fell from her bag and rolled down the path.

It rolled until it stopped at the feet of an old man who picked up it up. As he held it, he knew exactly whose ball of wool he had found. He walked up to the old woman seated on the bench. She looked up and murmured, "Thank you." She gazed at his bright eyes and warm smile, kindness etched in the lines of his face. Over the months they had noticed each other ... yet never talked.

Soon they were sitting by the pond, watching the birds floating on its surface or diving below it, taking flight or landing with a splash. And in the chill winter air, she noticed that he had no scarf ...

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