"He" woke to the soft, ordinary light of morning, the kind that didn't demand anything from "Him".
For a moment, "He" lay still, listening to the quiet hum of the house—though house was only a shape borrowed by eternity—then smiled faintly and said aloud, "Good morning," as if greeting creation itself.
"His" voice did not echo, yet it lingered, settling gently into the walls, into time.
In the kitchen, "He" moved without haste, because haste had never been "His" companion.
Eggs cracked beneath "His" fingers like small, willing offerings. Bread warmed, coffee bloomed, and the air filled with a comfort older than memory.
The pan hissed softly, not from heat alone, but from recognition. Even sound knew "Him".
"He" ate at the small table by the window, and the window opened not just to a street or a sky, but to the slow, eternal waking of existence.
Outside, the day unfolded because "He" allowed it to. Afterward, "He" poured water into a glass.
The water shimmered, remembering rivers, rains, and oceans it had once been. "He" carried it to the corner where the plant lived—lived, because "He" had spoken that it should.
"He" watered the soil with deliberate care, and when "His" fingers brushed dust from a leaf, the plant leaned subtly into "His" touch. Gratitude passed between them without words.
"He" stood there for a while, unmeasured by clocks. Light gathered around "Him", not brighter, just deeper, as if reality itself were breathing in "His" presence.
The room was small, yet it contained forever. Every object—table, cup, floor—rested in quiet awe, sustained moment by moment by "His" being.
And in that stillness, "He" was not worshiped, nor did "He" ask to be. "He" simply was. Eternal, gentle, and near.
"What a great day to die," with a smile, "He" said. The words did not invite an ending. They settled into the air like a promise misunderstood by mortals. Death listened—and waited.
"He" turned toward the window. The sun stood there, full and radiant, suspended in the sky like a held breath. It did not move. It would not dare.
Light poured endlessly through the glass, not because it burned, but because it wished to remain seen by "Him". Time slowed, then forgot how to pass at all.
"He" watched the sun the way one watches an old companion. Patiently. Kindly. The shadows did not stretch. Noon refused to become afternoon. The world remained in a single, perfect moment of warmth.
Eventually, hunger arrived—not as a need, but as a ritual. Lunch was simple. Bread again, cut carefully. Fruit split open, its sweetness carrying echoes of the first harvest ever known.
Water poured, clear and obedient. "He" ate by the window, sunlight resting on "His" hands, on "His" face, like a blessing returning to its source. Outside, birds hovered mid-flight, leaves paused mid-sway. All things waited.
Afterward, "He" stepped into the garden.
The garden was not large, yet it had no edge. Grass bent under "His" feet before "He" touched it. Flowers leaned toward "Him", colors deepening, petals opening wider than before.
"He" sat on a wooden bench, warm from the unmoving sun, and rested "His" hands on "His" knees.
The soil breathed. Roots listened. Somewhere deep beneath the earth, seeds chose to become more.
"He" closed His eyes.
The sun still did not leave.
Only when "He" opened them again for who knows after how long and spoke—softly, clearly—did the world exhale.
"You may rest now."
The sun bowed. Light loosened its grip. Evening flowed in, gentle and unquestioned. Shadows finally learned how to move. Night arrived not as an end, but as permission fulfilled.
Stars appeared carefully, one by one, as if afraid to interrupt.
"He" remained in the garden, smiling faintly, eternal and near, while the universe continued—only because "He" allowed it to.
"Is this the only way?" Suddenly, a shadow appeared behind him, it's voice was low and, rough, as if it had scraped itself raw against eternity before daring to speak.
"He" did not turn at once. "He" kept "His" eyes on the sky, where night now rested obediently. A smile touched "His" face—not sad, not cruel, but knowing.
"Yes," "He" said softly.
The shadow shifted, its edges trembling. "You don't need to die," it said. "You could stay. You could fight. You are stronger than "Them". Let the world burn a little longer if it means you live."
"He" finally turned. Light did not flee from the shadow when "He" looked at it. Instead, it softened.
"If I stay," said "He", "they will never rise."
"Heroes are already rising," the shadow argued. "Some pray to you. Some fear you. Some would follow you anywhere."
"They follow because I am here," "He" replied gently. "And that is the problem."
The shadow clenched, growing taller. "Then teach them. Lead them. Stand above Them and end it yourself."
"He" shook His head, slowly. "They are not meant to win because of Me. They are meant to win because of themselves."
Silence fell between them, heavy and vast.
"Them," the shadow whispered, as if the word itself tasted bitter. "Soon, "They" will tear the worlds apart."
"Oh for sure "They" will...", "He" agreed. "Unless something greater than fear is born."
"And that something requires your death?" the shadow asked sharply as "He" shook his head, "My sacrifice," "He" corrected. "There is a difference."
The shadow stepped closer. "You are eternal. You do not end."
"He" smiled wider now. "Even Infinity must come to an end, so what am I?" The garden stirred. The stars dimmed slightly, listening.
"When I fall," "He" continued, "my power will not vanish. It will scatter. Into courage. Into defiance. Into flawed, stubborn souls who will stand up and say no to Them—even when terrified."
The shadow's voice cracked. "And you?"
"I will become the reason they rise," "He" said. "Not the hand that lifts the sword, but the weight that teaches them to lift it themselves."
The shadow lowered its head. "You always choose the cruel kindness."
"He" chuckled softly. "Someone must.", he said as a long pause followed.
"…When?" the shadow asked.
"He" looked up once more, at the stars He had allowed to exist. "When morning comes again."
Soon, silence covered the whole world as... "What does this future you saw looks like?" The shadow asked as "He" just smiled, "I have no such ability to look in future."
The shadow just looked at him as if not believing him before it dissolved into the night, leaving only silence.
"He" remained in the garden, calm and smiling, waiting for a dawn that would cost everything—and change everything.
After who knows how long, "He" felt satisfied as "He" stood up. With unhurried steps, "He" stood and walked back inside, through halls that remembered every version of "Him" that had ever passed.
The study room welcomed "Him" in silence. Shelves lined the walls, heavy with books that held beginnings, endings, and truths no longer spoken.
"He" sat at the table, the wood warm beneath His touch, and reached for a diary resting at its center. Its cover was plain, almost humble—by choice.
"He" opened it and began to write.
Not commands. Not prophecies. Just the day.
The unmoving sun.
The garden.
The shadow's doubt.
His own quiet certainty.
Each word settled onto the page like a heartbeat, steady and final.
[And so, I went to sleep after a long day...]
"He" closed the diary, it felt complete—not full, but enough.
"He" carried it into another room.
The door opened to reveal endless treasures: crowns forged from dead stars, blades that had never tasted blood, gems containing frozen moments of joy, sorrow, and hope.
Precious objects filled the space, radiant and powerful, yet none of them drew "His" gaze for long.
"He" placed the diary among them, setting it gently at the center, as if laying down the greatest treasure of all.
Because it was, "May you all find worthy companions," "He" said, knowing a long adventure awaits these little treasures.
Then "He" turned away, leaving the room untouched by longing, and returned to "His" bedroom. The bed waited, simple and familiar. "He" lay down, the weight of eternity resting easily upon Him.
Softly, to no one and everyone, "He" said,
"Good night."
And the world held its breath, knowing morning would come—only because "He" allowed "Himself" to sleep.
And so, a big bang occured, the second one in the history of Universe, with "Him" as centre.