Even the voids between stars glowed faintly, alive with patient understanding.
And through it all, awareness flowed—gentle, unhurried, radiant.
Everywhere it touched, something stirred awake: not just matter, but meaning.
For now, the Infinite had learned the art of gentleness—
to create without command, to give without expectation, to exist without need.
In this new unfolding, time itself changed its nature.
It no longer measured; it embraced.
Moments did not march—they meandered,
mingling past and future into a single, golden present.
Beings arose—new sparks of consciousness, yet ancient in essence.
They did not seek their origin, for they were it.
Their first breath was already a prayer of recognition,
their first thought a song of gratitude.
And as they looked upon their world—its skies painted with the dreams of starlight, its rivers carrying the reflections of possibility—they did not ask, "Who made this?"
They whispered instead, "How beautiful that I can see."
