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 hills.

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 people 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 pathways to kingdoms unseen by anyone by me,
and the golden light that slipped 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.

Living 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.

Their stories waiting to be told.