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Until a couple of years ago, the number of weaving looms in every house was equal to the number of the household’s sons. When you passed the last curve of the road into the village, you could have heard the sound of the running river and the weaving reeds; but nowadays, both sounds have gone silent. Finally, one of the villagers accepted to work with us. We rented a house in that village and set up a weaving loom. During the winters, window glasses were frozen from inside the house. We spent three springs in that village and our hearts were warm about the idea that villagers might start weaving again. Those kind-hearted villagers were skeptical and wondered what treasure we were looking for and which piece of land we would dig up. They did not believe that our treasure lay in their hands and we would only dig into their souls to find a clue about the mystery of weaving.
