Morning came without announcement.
He was already awake when light filtered through the canopy, sitting still until the forest settled around him. He had learned that the world responded better when it was not startled.
He rose, moved toward the stream, and knelt.
The water ran cold and narrow between stones. He watched it for a long moment, then spoke—clearly, carefully, the words shaped exactly as he remembered them.
> "And God said, Let there be waters…"
He stopped.
The stream bent.
Not violently. Not suddenly. The water lifted from its course as if answering a command it had always known, gathering into a shallow basin at his feet. It did not spill. It did not resist.
He waited. Then said nothing more.
The water obeyed again, returning to its bed.
That was enough.
He drank, wiped his hands on his trousers, and moved on.
Further in, where the trees grew tighter and the light thinned, he crouched and studied the ground. Tracks. Fresh. Small. He adjusted his grip on the knife and spoke toward the underbrush, voice low but firm.
> "And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind…"
He cut the words short.
The forest answered immediately.
Something collapsed just beyond the brush—no struggle, no chase. When he parted the leaves, the animal lay still, as if it had simply reached the end of what it was allowed to do.
He did not look away.
This was not mercy. It was efficiency.
He cleaned the blade, worked quickly, and packed the meat. When he stood, a dull pressure settled behind his eyes. Not pain. A reminder.
Too much, and the world would push back.
Later, as the heat rose, he paused again. Sweat clung to his skin. The air felt heavy, unwilling to move.
He spoke softly, measured.
> "And God created great whales…"
Only that.
Moisture gathered, thin and cool, drifting through the trees. The air eased. He stopped immediately, jaw tightening as the sensation pressed inward, deeper than before.
Enough.
He stepped back and let the world finish what he had started.
As he walked, he checked his pack. The papers were still there, wrapped tight. He did not read them often. He did not need to. He remembered what he saw. What mattered was keeping them.
The forest shifted as the day wore on.
Birds scattered without direction. Not fleeing him—fleeing through him, as if the trees themselves were unsure which way was safe. The stream he had used earlier had not fully settled. Its surface trembled, faint ripples forming without wind.
He stopped.
Listened.
Then he heard it.
Another voice.
Not close. But loud enough to carry. The words were longer than his. Spoken without restraint. A sentence pushed too far.
The ground beneath his feet tightened, like a held breath.
Whoever that was, they were saying too much.
He turned, marking the direction without moving toward it. His grip tightened on the strap of his pack.
Speaking was not the danger.
Finishing was.
He adjusted his route, melted back into the trees, and left the sound behind him.
Someone else was using that thing.
And they didn't know when to stop.