In a quiet Balinese village, just past the monkey forest and rice terraces glazed in gold, a mother and daughter sit before an ancient loom. No electricity, no screens, only rhythm. The soft pull of thread, the wooden clack of the shuttle.

Their fingers move not with speed, but with memory.

Each strand tells a story — of harvest, of birth, of storms weathered and blessings received. The daughter, only 16, weaves her first ceremonial cloth. Her mother does not speak, but watches with a proud stillness that speaks volumes.

We sat with them for hours, not asking questions, just listening. Watching. Honoring the patience in their process. When the cloth was finished, they offered a piece of it to us.

Not to take — but to carry.