The Weavings of Time in Villa Esperanza

Chapter 1: The Tremor in the Weavings 

Her workshop, perched above the town’s small library, was a testament to her craft. Spools of solidified time, harvested with delicate silver tools, lined the shelves, each labeled with the moment it contained – the laughter of children during last summer’s harvest festival, the quiet murmur of the river on a moonlit night, the comforting rhythm of her grandfather’s breathing in his final days. On her workbench, a half-finished tapestry shimmered, depicting the history of Villa Esperanza woven from threads of significant moments. The vibrant colors of the town’s early years gradually faded towards the more muted tones of recent times, where some dark, tangled threads were beginning to appear like ink stains on a pristine canvas.

A soft knock on the door broke her reverie. “Adelante,” she called, her voice with a slight hint of apprehension.

Don Mateo entered, his familiar figure slightly stooped, his eyes magnified behind his thin-framed spectacles. He carried a worn leather-bound book, its pages brittle with age, and a worried frown creased his brow. The scent of old paper and dried herbs, which always accompanied him, filled the workshop.

“Sofía, muchacha,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “you have felt it, haven’t you? The… disturbance?”

Sofía nodded, turning from the balcony. “Yes, Don Mateo. It has grown stronger since yesterday. The threads… they feel wrong. Rough, almost. And I have seen…” She hesitated, unsure if she should voice her fears. The fleeting image of the distorted fountain still remained vivid in her mind, a shiver running down her spine.

Don Mateo settled into a creaky wooden chair, placing the ancient book carefully on the small table beside him. His bony fingers caressed the worn cover. “You have seen the dark threads, haven’t you? The enredos?”

The word itself, “enredos“, a local term for the dark, tangled strands, sent a chill down Sofía’s back. They were a relatively recent phenomenon, appearing sporadically at first, causing minor memory lapses or fleeting feelings of déjà vu. But lately, they had become more frequent, more invasive, and their effects more unsettling. Some villagers had begun to talk about forgetting simple tasks, losing entire moments of their days, as if time itself were unraveling.

“Yes,” Sofía confirmed, her voice barely a whisper. “I saw one this morning,缠绕 around the old fountain in the square. For a moment, the water seemed to flow backward, and the faces of the people nearby… they looked like strangers, old and withered. It was like a fleeting nightmare.”

Don Mateo sighed, running a wrinkled hand over the cover of his book. The deep lines around his eyes seemed to have deepened in the last few hours. “The legends speak of such times, Sofía. Times when the balance of the Tejidos becomes disrupted. The first weavers called them ‘the unraveling.'”

“The unraveling?” Sofía repeated, the term sending a chill through her. “What does it mean?”

“It means,” Don Mateo said gravely, opening the book to a page filled with intricate drawings and faded script, “that the past, present, and future are becoming… unstuck. The boundaries are blurring. Memories that were never ours seep into our minds. Moments that haven’t happened yet cast shadows on our present.” He pointed to a drawing in the book, which showed intertwined threads of light suddenly separating and tangling into dark knots. “Look, it is represented here. Order becomes chaos.”

Just then, another presence made itself known. A figure leaned against the doorframe, his silhouette framed by the soft light of the hallway. It was Silas, the nomad who had drifted into Villa Esperanza a few years prior and remained an enigma to most of the townspeople. His long, dark hair was pulled back from his weathered face, and his piercing gaze seemed to absorb the very light in the room. There was a wild, quiet quality to his bearing, like a wild animal observing from the fringes.

“The air feels thick,” Silas said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that seemed to carry the echoes of distant winds. “Like a storm is coming, but not of rain or thunder.” His eyes moved slowly around the workshop, pausing briefly on the strange spools of time before returning to Sofía and Don Mateo.

Sofía and Don Mateo exchanged glances. Silas rarely spoke, and his observations were often cryptic, yet strangely insightful. His apparent immunity to the effects of the dark threads had made him an object of both curiosity and suspicion in Villa Esperanza. Some saw him as a dangerous hermit, while others, like Sofía, felt there was more to him, a hidden wisdom beneath his stoic exterior.

“Silas,” Don Mateo said, his tone cautious, “you feel it too?”

Silas straightened up and stepped fully into the workshop. He moved with a quiet grace that belied his rugged appearance. His worn leather boots made no sound on the wooden floor. “The threads… they don’t touch me. But I see their effects on others. The confusion, the lost moments. It’s like watching a tapestry slowly fray.” He approached Sofía’s workbench and examined the half-finished tapestry, his fingers gently brushing against the threads of light. “I see them here too. Small shadows that shouldn’t be there.”

Sofía felt a flicker of hope. Silas’s unique perspective might be the key to understanding what was happening. “You said you don’t feel them. Why?”

Silas hesitated, his gaze drifting towards the spools of time on the shelves. He seemed to weigh his words carefully. “I… I have my own ways of seeing things. Ways that keep me separate from the flow.” He offered no further explanation, and Sofía knew better than to press him. He revealed information only when he deemed it necessary. There was something in his eyes, however, a deep sadness or perhaps resignation, that suggested his separation from the flow of time was not an easy choice.

Don Mateo cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to the open book. “According to the ancient texts, the unraveling is often linked to the Telar Olvidado – the Forgotten Loom. It is said to be the source of the first Tejidos, the very foundation of our connection to time.” He pointed to another drawing in the book, this time depicting an intricate loom, made of what appeared to be solidified light.

“The Forgotten Loom?” Sofía frowned. She had heard whispers of it in the old stories, a mythical artifact said to be hidden somewhere in the mountains that surrounded the valley. Legends described it as an object of immense power, capable of weaving not only the history of Villa Esperanza, but also the destiny of its inhabitants. “Is it real?”

“The legends say it is,” replied Don Mateo. “And they also say that when the balance of time is threatened, the Loom awakens, its power either restoring harmony or accelerating the chaos.” He turned a page of the book, revealing text written in an ancient language that Sofía could not understand. “This passage describes a similar time, many centuries ago, when the unraveling threatened to consume everything. It was the Forgotten Loom, according to the legend, that saved our ancestors.”

“So, the dark threads… they could be a sign that the Loom is active?” Sofía asked, feeling a growing sense of urgency. If the Loom was the key to stopping the unraveling, they had to find it as soon as possible.

Don Mateo nodded grimly. “Or that something is tampering with it. The texts are unclear on the specifics. But they all agree on one thing: if the unraveling is not stopped, Villa Esperanza will cease to exist, its moments and memories fading into nothingness.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke these words, reflecting the deep fear he felt for the future of his home.

The weight of his words settled heavily in the small workshop. Sofía looked out at the town square again. The shimmering air seemed less like a gentle dance now, and more like a frantic, desperate struggle. The faces of the people below, usually filled with the quiet rhythm of their daily lives, seemed clouded with a growing unease. She saw an old woman stumble in the street, her face confused, as if she had forgotten where she was going. A child cried, clinging to his mother’s skirt, seemingly frightened by something invisible.

“We have to do something,” Sofía said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. “We have to find the Forgotten Loom.” Her gaze hardened with determination. She could not allow her home, the place her grandfather loved so much, to fade away.

Don Mateo nodded in agreement. “I will delve deeper into the texts, try to decipher the clues to its location. But the legends also speak of a guardian, someone tied to the Loom’s fate.” He closed the book with a soft thud, his gaze fixed on a distant point. “An ancient being, it is said, who protects the Loom from those who might use its power for selfish ends.”

Silas, who had been silently observing them, finally spoke. “The mountains… they hold many secrets. I have seen things in the high passes, felt echoes of power that are older than this town.” His gaze drifted towards the windows, towards the jagged peaks that rose above the valley. “There are paths up there that are not on any map, places where time itself seems to behave differently.”

Sofía looked at him, a new sense of hope flickering within her. The idea of venturing into the mountains frightened her, but the prospect of finding the Forgotten Loom outweighed her fear. “You think you can help us find it?”

Silas met her gaze, his expression unreadable. There was an intensity in his dark eyes that Sofía had never seen before. “I walk my own path, weaver. But our paths may converge for a time. The unraveling… it disturbs the stillness I seek.” He turned towards the door. “I will go to the mountains. I will look for signs, anything that might indicate the presence of the Loom.”

And so, an unlikely alliance began to form in the small workshop above the library. A young weaver grappling with loss and responsibility, an aging historian burdened by ancient knowledge, and a mysterious nomad seeking a fleeting moment of stillness. Their quest to find the Forgotten Loom, the key to restoring the balance of time in Villa Esperanza, had begun, fueled by a shared sense of urgency and the unsettling dance of the Tejidos del Tiempo that shimmered all around them. The fate of their town, woven into the very fabric of time, hung precariously in the balance, threatened by the encroaching darkness of the unraveling. The task before them was arduous and filled with unknown dangers, but in the silent determination of their hearts, a faint light of hope began to shine. The adventure had begun.

Chapter 2: Intertwined Paths 

The following morning dawned over Villa Esperanza with a palpable atmosphere of unease. The Tejidos del Tiempo, which the night before had pulsed with a nervous agitation, now seemed opaque and frayed in places, like an old tapestry worn out by time and misuse. People moved through the streets with unusual caution, whispering to each other about the strange memory lapses and fleeting visions they had experienced during the night. A young baker swore he had baked the next day’s bread, only to find his oven empty at dawn. An elderly carpet weaver insisted on remembering a conversation with her deceased husband that had never taken place. The unraveling was infiltrating the daily life of the town, sowing confusion and fear.

Sofía woke up with a sense of urgency. Her sleep had been plagued by fragmented images: dark threads twisting like snakes, the distant sound of a groaning loom, and the shadowy figure of her grandfather reaching out to her, his face hidden by shadows. She got out of bed quickly, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. Morning light streamed through her bedroom window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the sketches of intricate temporal weaving patterns that covered her walls.

She found Don Mateo already awake in the library downstairs, surrounded by stacks of ancient books and faded parchments. The light from an oil lamp flickered on his spectacles as he examined an old map, his bony fingers tracing barely visible lines.

“Any progress, Don Mateo?” Sofía asked, her voice still hoarse from sleep.

Don Mateo sighed, pushing the map aside. “I have found some more references to the Forgotten Loom, but its location remains elusive. The texts speak of a place ‘where the sky meets the earth,’ and of a path guarded by ‘echoes of time.’ They are riddles, Sofía, wrapped in metaphors.”

“Echoes of time?” Sofía frowned. “What could that mean?”

“They could be memories trapped in the landscape, moments that repeat themselves over and over,” Don Mateo suggested. “Or perhaps temporal illusions, created by the very unstable nature of the unraveling.”

As they spoke, Silas entered the library, his silent presence barely noticeable until he was fully inside. He wore his usual worn leather clothes, and his backpack looked bulkier than the night before.

“I have been observing the paths leading up to the mountains,” he said, his voice low and direct. “There is a disturbance there, stronger than here in the town. A knot of dark threads is concentrated near the Sentinel Peak.”

Sentinel Peak was the highest mountain overlooking Villa Esperanza, its summit often shrouded in clouds. It had always been a place avoided by the townspeople, who considered it wild and dangerous.

“Do you think the Forgotten Loom could be there?” Sofía asked, feeling a pang of fear at the thought of venturing into those heights.

Silas shrugged. “I don’t know. But that is where the disturbance is strongest. If the unraveling is connected to the Loom, then that is a good place to start looking.”

Don Mateo nodded. “It makes sense. The texts also mention that the Loom is located in a place of great temporal power, a point where the currents of time converge.”

“So, what do we do?” Sofía asked. The urgency of finding the Loom had intensified. With each passing moment, the unraveling seemed to grow stronger, threatening to disintegrate the very reality of Villa Esperanza.

“We must go to the mountains,” Silas said. “I will go first, scout the terrain, and look for signs of the Loom or any dangers that may be there.”

“You will not go alone,” Sofía interjected firmly. “I will go with you. My grandfather taught me how to navigate the Tejidos del Tiempo. Perhaps I can sense the presence of the Loom.”

Don Mateo looked worried. “It is dangerous, Sofía. The mountains can be treacherous, especially with this temporal instability.”

“I know, Don Mateo,” Sofía replied, “but we cannot afford to wait. Every moment counts.” She looked at Silas, whose dark eyes were observing her with a silent intensity. “We need to work together.”

Silas nodded slowly. “Very well. But you must know that the path will be difficult. There are no guarantees of what we will find up there.”

“I am prepared,” Sofía said, her voice filled with newfound determination. The loss of her grandfather still hurt, but the thought of saving her home and honoring his legacy gave her the strength to face the unknown.

Don Mateo sighed with resignation. “Then, go carefully. I will take the texts with me and try to find more clues about the exact location of the Loom and the nature of its guardian. Keep an eye out for anything strange or unusual.”

Thus, Sofía and Silas prepared for their journey to the mountains. Sofía gathered her temporal weaving tools, making sure to take bone needles, spools of light thread, and her pendant made of a bright time strand. Silas checked his backpack, ensuring he had enough provisions and the necessary tools for a mountain trek.

As they left the library, the atmosphere in Villa Esperanza seemed even more tense. People moved with lost gazes, some murmuring prayers, others simply staring into the void with an expression of confusion on their faces. The shimmering air now looked like a choppy sea of disordered threads, with dark swirls of enredos appearing at random points.

The path to the mountains was steep and rocky, winding through dense pine forests and rocky outcrops. As they ascended, the presence of the Tejidos del Tiempo became stronger, but also more erratic. In some places, the threads of light rippled with astonishing clarity, revealing fragments of past moments: the sound of children’s laughter, the distant echo of a bird’s song, the fleeting image of an ancient procession. In other places, the dark enredos formed dense knots, distorting the light and creating brief optical illusions: trees that seemed to move, rocks that changed shape, shadows that stretched unnaturally.

Silas moved with the agility of a mountain animal, guiding Sofía through the rugged terrain. His silence was almost absolute, but Sofía could feel his keen observation, his senses constantly alert to any sign of danger or anything out of the ordinary.

After several hours of hiking, they reached a more open area where the path narrowed and snaked along a steep cliff. Below, the valley of Villa Esperanza stretched out like a green and brown tapestry, dotted with the red rooftops of the town. Sentinel Peak rose majestically before them, its summit still hidden by a blanket of clouds.

It was here, in this place where the wind whistled fiercely and the air felt charged with a strange energy, that Sofía first felt a strong disturbance in the Tejidos del Tiempo. It wasn’t just the visible chaos of the enredos, but an underlying feeling that something fundamental was out of place, like a discordant note in a perfect melody.

“Here,” said Sofía, stopping and closing her eyes. “I feel something. A strong concentration of… temporal energy. It’s like a whirlpool, pulling at the other threads.”

Silas stopped beside her, his gaze scanning the landscape. “You feel the enredos?”

“Not just that,” Sofía replied. “It’s something deeper, as if time itself is suffering.” She opened her eyes and looked towards Sentinel Peak. “I think it’s up there.”

They continued their ascent, the path becoming increasingly steep and treacherous. The clouds surrounding the peak began to descend, enveloping them in a cold, damp mist that made visibility difficult. The Tejidos del Tiempo here were even more chaotic, with fragments of different eras flickering around them: the sound of clashing swords, the echo of an unknown laughter, the fleeting vision of an ancient and gaunt face.

Suddenly, a loud rumble echoed through the mountains, followed by a tremor that made the ground shake beneath their feet. Rocks and debris fell from above, forcing them to take shelter behind a large rock outcrop.

“What was that?” Sofía shouted over the roar.

Silas narrowed his eyes, looking towards the summit of the peak. “Something is happening up there. The unraveling… it’s intensifying.”

When the tremor subsided, they continued their ascent with even more caution. The fog had become thicker, reducing their visibility to just a few meters. The Tejidos del Tiempo around them were now a whirlwind of light and darkness, with fragments of past, present, and future mixing chaotically.

Finally, after an arduous climb, they reached the summit of Sentinel Peak. What they found there took their breath away.

In the center of a wind-swept rocky platform stood an imposing and strange structure. It was the Forgotten Loom, although it looked nothing like what Sofía had imagined. It was not a simple wooden loom, but a complex network of interwoven filaments of light, pulsating with a bright and shifting energy. In its center, a dark void seemed to absorb the surrounding light, while dark, twisted strands emanated from it, spreading like corrupted roots into the surrounding landscape.

But most astonishing of all was the figure standing before the Loom. She was a woman of ancient and majestic appearance, dressed in robes that seemed woven from the starry night itself. Her face was marked by countless lines of time, and her eyes shone with the wisdom of centuries. She was the guardian of the Forgotten Loom. And she appeared to be struggling.

Dark threads surrounded her, trying to imprison her, while she, with visible effort, wove with threads of bright light to counteract the darkness. But the force of the enredos seemed to be overwhelming her.

“She… she’s trying to contain it,” Sofía whispered, instantly understanding the magnitude of the situation. The unraveling was not simply a natural phenomenon; something was causing it, and the guardian was fighting to prevent it from consuming everything.

Just at that moment, the guardian looked up, and her eyes, filled with an ancient sadness, met Sofía’s. In that instant, Sofía felt a deep and mysterious connection to this enigmatic figure, as if an invisible thread bound them together through time. And in the guardian’s gaze, Sofía saw a silent plea, a request for help that resonated deeply in her heart. The battle for time in Villa Esperanza had just begun.

Chapter 3: The Restored Weave 

The encounter with the guardian of the Forgotten Loom had enveloped the summit of Sentinel Peak in an atmosphere of palpable tension. The woman, whose presence radiated an incomprehensible antiquity, struggled with a silent determination against the dark threads that besieged her. Her face, a map of countless eras, showed the weight of a battle that seemed to extend beyond mortal comprehension. The filaments of light emanating from the Forgotten Loom, normally vibrant and harmonious, now flickered erratically, like a flame about to be extinguished.

Sofía felt a surge of empathy towards the guardian, an intuitive connection that transcended words. It was as if she understood the pain and fatigue emanating from her, the weight of the responsibility of maintaining the balance of time. Without hesitation, she stepped forward.

“Can we help?” Sofía asked, her voice echoing in the rarefied air of the mountain.

The guardian turned her gaze towards Sofía, her eyes shining with a faint but intense light. She did not speak, but in her gaze, Sofía perceived a mixture of hope and warning. It was as if the guardian had been waiting for this moment, the arrival of someone who could assist her in her struggle.

Silas approached Sofía, his hand briefly brushing her arm. “Be careful, weaver. We don’t know what we’re facing.”

“I know,” Sofía replied, her gaze fixed on the guardian. “But we can’t stand idly by.”

As Sofía approached the guardian, the dark threads seemed to intensify their attack, twisting and spreading like venomous tendrils. The guardian let out a silent groan, and one of the light filaments of the Loom flickered and dimmed.

“We must distract the dark threads,” Silas said, drawing a dark-bladed dagger he carried at his belt. “I’ll take care of that. You try to help the guardian.”

Sofía nodded and moved even closer to the ancient woman. She extended her hands, feeling the strange energy emanating from the Loom and the guardian herself. It was a powerful and primordial energy, the life force of time itself.

“What can I do?” Sofía asked, her voice now filled with a quiet determination.

The guardian finally spoke, her voice soft but resonant, like the echo of ancient bells. “The dark threads… they feed on imbalance. On doubt, on fear, on loss. You must weave… you must remember harmony.”

Sofía understood. The unraveling was not an external force, but a manifestation of time’s own wounds, amplified by something or someone. She had to use her ability to restore balance, to remember moments of joy, of hope, of connection.

She closed her eyes and concentrated, recalling her grandfather’s teachings. She visualized the Tejidos del Tiempo not as a chaos of disordered threads, but as an intricate and beautiful tapestry, where each thread had its place and purpose. She began to move her hands, as if she were weaving in the air, invoking threads of golden light from her own memories: the warmth of her grandfather’s embrace, the laughter of children in the square, the serenity of sunsets over Villa Esperanza.

As Sofía wove, the threads of light began to surround the guardian, slowly repelling the darkness that imprisoned her. The filaments of the Forgotten Loom seemed to respond to her touch, shining with renewed intensity.

Meanwhile, Silas fought against the dark threads with surprising agility. His dagger cut through the darkness, but the threads seemed to regenerate instantly, as if they were an inseparable part of the Loom itself.

“They are connected to the center!” Silas shouted to Sofía. “You must cut off the source.”

Sofía opened her eyes and looked towards the center of the Loom, where the dark void pulsed with a sinister energy. She understood that this was the origin of the enredos, the source of the imbalance. But how could she reach it? It was protected by a dense tangle of dark threads and the Loom’s own unstable energy.

It was then that she remembered the pendant her grandfather had given her, the particularly bright strand of time she always carried. Her grandfather had told her that this strand contained the essence of a moment of pure joy and unconditional love. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could use it to penetrate the darkness.

She took off the pendant and held it in her hand. The thread of light shone intensely, radiating a comforting warmth. With a deep breath, she lunged towards the center of the Loom, dodging the dark threads with the agility of a dancer.

As she approached the dark void, she felt a surge of cold and despair that tried to envelop her. But the light of the pendant resisted, creating a small shield of purity around her. With a cry of determination, Sofía threw the pendant into the heart of the darkness.

In the instant the thread of light touched the void, an explosion of brilliant energy radiated from the center of the Loom. The dark threads writhed and vanished like smoke, and the dark void began to shrink, sucking in the darkness that had emanated from it.

The guardian let out a sigh of relief, and a golden light enveloped her completely. The filaments of the Forgotten Loom vibrated with a new harmony, and the summit of Sentinel Peak was illuminated with an ethereal glow.

When the light faded, the Forgotten Loom seemed to have regained its balance. The threads of light rippled gently, and there was no longer any trace of the darkness that had corrupted it. The guardian stood before it, her face now serene and filled with a quiet wisdom.

Sofía approached her, feeling exhausted but filled with a deep satisfaction. “We did it,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The guardian smiled faintly. “No, little weaver. You did it. Your pure heart and your connection to the Tejidos del Tiempo were the key.”

Silas approached them, his dagger now sheathed. He looked at the Loom with a mixture of awe and respect. “The stillness… has returned.”

The guardian nodded. “Balance has been restored, for now. But darkness always lurks at the edges of time. You must remain vigilant.”

Then, the guardian turned to Sofía. “You have a special gift, weaver. A deep connection to the heart of time. You must learn to cultivate that gift, to understand the secrets of the Tejidos.”

“Me?” Sofía asked, surprised.

“Time needs guardians, just like the Loom,” replied the guardian. “And I believe you have the potential to be one of them.”

The guardian extended a hand towards Sofía, and upon touching it, Sofía felt a surge of knowledge and understanding flood her mind. She saw glimpses of the past and the future, understood the intricate web of causes and effects that made up reality.

When the vision faded, the guardian withdrew her hand. “The path will not be easy, but you will not be alone. The Loom will guide you.”

Then, the guardian turned to Silas. “You, nomad of time, have found a purpose here. Your ability to remain on the fringes of the flow will allow you to see the disturbances that others cannot perceive. Be an observer, a silent protector.”

Silas nodded, a rare smile touching his lips. “I understand.”

With balance restored on Sentinel Peak, peace began to slowly return to Villa Esperanza. The Tejidos del Tiempo regained their brilliance and harmony, and the memory lapses and strange visions ceased. The townspeople felt a collective relief, although few understood the true magnitude of the danger they had faced.

Sofía and Silas returned to Villa Esperanza, where they were greeted as heroes. Don Mateo, who had been anxiously awaiting their return, embraced them with tears in his eyes.

“You did it!” he exclaimed. “I knew you could!”

In the days that followed, life in Villa Esperanza returned to normal, but for Sofía, nothing would ever be the same. She had discovered her true potential and accepted the responsibility of being a guardian of time. With Don Mateo’s guidance and Silas’s silent companionship, she began to study the secrets of the Tejidos del Tiempo, learning to weave and heal the wounds that might arise in the temporal flow.

Sometimes, when the night was clear, Sofía would go up to the balcony of her workshop and look towards Sentinel Peak. She knew the guardian was still there, watching over the Forgotten Loom. And although the future remained uncertain, Sofía felt filled with hope. Villa Esperanza was safe, for now, and she was ready to face any challenge that time might bring.

As for Silas, he continued to be a nomad, but now his path had a new purpose. He was often seen in the vicinity of Villa Esperanza, observing silently, ready to intervene if the balance of time was threatened again.

And so, the story of the Tejidos del Tiempo in Villa Esperanza continued, woven with threads of light, shadow, and the bravery of those who dared to protect its delicate balance. The Forgotten Loom remained in its place, high atop Sentinel Peak, a constant reminder of the power and fragility of time, and of the importance of those who swore to protect it. The future was a blank canvas, waiting to be woven with the threads of countless moments to come.