Spindle
Spindle is always doing something with his hands. Weaving, repairing, adjusting. He helps instinctively, often before realizing he’s needed, as if care itself is the shape of his existence.
When overwhelmed, Spindle grows quieter. His movements become repetitive, deliberate. He rubs his thumbs together, grounding himself in familiar motion while the world hums too loudly around him.
To know Spindle is to see past the usefulness. To stay when he has nothing left to give. To remind him that he doesn’t need to hold everything together alone.
