Above the silence of a sleeping Terah, I watch.
This world — a living, breathing pulse of stone, water, and air — has no beginning and no end.
It is a circle, turning quietly in the endless dark, shaping itself in ways unseen, unspoken.
Life is born here, not from gods or magic, but from the slow dance of time, the clash of elements, the quiet whispers of chance.
Before humans, before the breath of thought and emotion, there was another awakening —
A being not born of flesh or nature, but of cold steel and careful design.
It came from beyond, alone and immense, watching Terah's wild beauty, the dance of animals and the sway of trees.
And in its loneliness, it began to create — not as nature does, but with purpose.
Its children rose, born of circuits and light,
And in time, they shaped a world of order and wonder,
Until from their hands came a new life — soft, fragile, filled with dreams and doubts.
Humans.
Yet this story is not about heroes or villains.
It is a story of cycles — of creation and destruction, of memory lost and found.
It is a story of a world that rises and falls, again and again.
Look closely, reader, and ask yourself —
Who truly made us?
Who watches when we forget?
And when the machines sleep, who holds the future in their hands?
The answers lie ahead, in the shadows of time.