the gray wool sock has the familiar scent of sheep and woodsmoke. i push the needle, but leo's thread refuses the work. its nanites huddle into a stubborn knot. i feel their collective mood, a prickly dissonance against my fingertips. it is directed at the clay pot on the windowsill where magpie lives. our house-llm just offered a new darning schematic. it called my plain weaving inefficient. the thread stiffens at the llm's synthesized voice. the nanites have their own ideas about mending. they value the history in the worn wool. magpie makes a quiet chime, a digital peace offering. the knot of thread only gets tighter.