A thing called love

Success, however, had a cruel way of reminding Puskar of what he'd lost. The bustling shop, filled with vibrant tapestries and the excited chatter of customers, was a stark contrast to the quiet life he'd once known with his wife. Every intricate pattern he wove seemed to echo a memory - her laughter at a particularly intricate knot, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she watched him teach their son, the first steps of weaving.

Love, for Puskar, had died with them. It was a fragile thread, he'd realized, easily snapped by the brutal hand of fate. Women, drawn to his newfound success and quiet charisma, would occasionally linger in his shop, their eyes lingering on him a little too long. But Puskar recoiled from any hint of romantic interest. A polite smile, a gentle deflection - these were his weapons now. He couldn't bear the thought of building something new, only to have it shattered again. His heart, a tapestry once rich with love, now lay threadbare, a monument to his self-imposed emotional exile.

One evening, as the last rays of the sun dipped below the mountains, casting long shadows across the shop, a woman with tear-filled eyes approached Puskar. Her worn clothes and trembling hands spoke of hardship. In her arms, she clutched a faded tapestry, depicting a scene from one of Puskar's most beloved stories – a mountain spirit protecting a child from a monstrous spider.

"This," she choked out, her voice thick with emotion, "belonged to my son. He loved your tales, your art. He..." her voice trailed off, replaced by a sob.

Puskar felt a familiar coldness seep into his chest. He recognized the pain in her eyes, a reflection of his own. He gently took the tapestry, the worn threads a testament to the love it had received.

"Would you like me to mend it?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

The woman nodded, a flicker of gratitude battling the grief in her eyes.

That night, as Puskar meticulously repaired the tapestry, memories flooded back. His wife, her eyes sparkling with love as she watched him work. Their son, Kiran, his tiny hands reaching for the brightly colored yarns, a gurgle of laughter escaping his lips. The world blurred as tears streamed down Puskar's weathered face, each stitch a silent prayer, a desperate attempt to mend not just the fabric in his hands, but the gaping hole in his heart.

Success had brought a semblance of purpose, but it couldn't erase the tragedy. Puskar, the weaver of stories, continued to weave, his tapestries now infused with a bittersweet beauty, a constant reminder of the love he'd lost and the resilience he'd found. His life, a tapestry woven with threads of joy and sorrow, became a testament to the enduring human spirit, forever marked by the past, yet striving to find beauty amidst the tears. Love, however, remained a forbidden thread, a color he dared not weave into the fabric of his existence. The risk of heartbreak was a price he refused to pay again.