It was from these ancient Appalachian woods that Nightwoven was born.
Not stitched from cloth alone,
but spun from the hush between heartbeat and earth,
from dreams softened by moss and shaped by ancient light.

Nightwoven is a sanctuary for the unseen.

We carry the weight of our histories —
of mountains carved by storms,
of forests that hum folk songs in the bones of children brave enough to listen.

My earliest memories are woven from such places:

afternoons spent wandering the Appalachian woods behind my childhood home, where overturned trees made kingdoms,
and the golden light slipped like silk through towering branches overhead.

There was an eerie comfort in that solitude —
a velvet hug from the earth itself,
a whisper that the wild places could be both sanctuary and mirror.

Later, I lived in a house older than memory —
a sprawling white mortuary that breathed history through its floorboards.
There, too, I learned: beauty and strangeness are not opposites.
They are threads of the same tapestry.