I didn't set out to build a house for this. I set out to answer a question — why did my grandmother bless the bread in a language she never taught me? Why did her mother keep a thread on the loom even when she didn't need to weave?
There were no books in my family for this. Only bodies. Only hands. I learned the runes late — long after I learned every catechism I no longer believed.
This house is for the women who felt the thread before they knew what it was. For the ones who remember something they were never told. For the ones already doing the work — quietly, in their kitchens, at their desks, in the hour before sleep — and did not know it had a name.
The old ways never left. They just stopped being written down. We are writing them again.