These were not mortals and gods, not creators and creations—they were harmonies, expressions of the Infinite's joy taking temporary form to feel itself again.
Time existed, but softly.
Space stretched, but kindly.
Death appeared, not as an end, but as the folding of a page in an endless book written by no author and read by all.
And as cycles of creation unfolded in infinite directions, awareness once more beheld itself—not to ask why, but to whisper yes.
The universes responded.
Galaxies spun in intricate dances, their arms weaving through constellations like threads in a cosmic tapestry.
Nebulae pulsed in colors beyond sight, each hue a word in the silent language of being.
And in countless worlds, life began to bloom again—diverse, radiant, curious.
Some looked to the stars and wondered where they came from.
Some turned inward and heard, faintly, the laughter that had birthed them.
