The garden stretched endlessly in every direction, a carefully crafted paradise of flowers that blood in impossible colors and trees that bore fruit from a dozen different worlds. Paths wound between them, leading to quiet clearings and peaceful overlooks where the fabric of reality thinned enough to glimpse the mortal realms below.
Adam walked beside his father, their footsteps silent on the soft grass. For a long while, neither spoke. There was too much to say, and no easy place to start.
Finally, Adam’s father broke the silence.
"Tell about your world," he said gently. "The one you’ve made. The people in it."
Adam considered the question. "It’s not really my world. It’s everyone’s. I just... exist there. Like I exist everywhere." He paused. "But there are people. Good people. Complicated people."
"Like your brother."
"Like Alex." Adam nodded. "He’s different now. More than different. He’s Existence itself. Everything that is, everything that was, everything that will be—it all flows through him. He carries a weight I can’t even imagine."
His father smiled. "And yet he’s still your brother. Still the sa boy who used to argue with you about who got the last piece of bread."
Adam laughed softly. "Yeah. He’s still that. Underneath everything, he’s still that."
They walked in silence for a few more steps.
"I have a niece," Adam said. "Annabeth. Alex’s daughter. He didn’t know about her for a long ti—she was born while he was... away. But we found her. She’s amazing. Strong. Stubborn. Scared, sotis, but she hides it well."
"She’s like her father, then."
"And her uncle." Adam grinned. "She’s got my charm."
His father chuckled. "I’m sure she does."
"She’s also in charge of Earth now. I kind of... left her in charge. With so help. Fatimah—she was Heaven’s chief judge—keeps her grounded. Makes sure the power doesn’t corrupt her." Adam shrugged. "It was either that or let the politicians run things into the ground."
His father raised an eyebrow. "You put a teenager in charge of an entire planet."
"She’s seventeen. Practically an adult."
"That’s not how age works, son."
"It’s how power works. She can handle it. And if she can’t, she has people who’ll step in." Adam looked at his father. "I trust her. That’s enough."
They walked further, passing through a grove of silver-leafed trees. The light here was soft, golden, like perpetual sunset.
"There are others," Adam continued. "Kahdijah—she’s Chaos. Absolute chaos, in every sense. She’s terrifying and wonderful and I have no idea how she hasn’t destroyed everything yet. Rebecca—she’s Death. Not the scary skeleton with a scythe version, though she does have a scythe. She’s... quiet. Patient. She’s been alone longer than anyone should be."
"And rlin?"
Adam smiled. "rlin’s new. He’s Energy and Matter—the stuff everything physical is made of. He spent seventeen years hiding what he was, afraid of hurting people. Now he’s waking up, learning what he can do. He’s got a good heart. That’s rare, for soone with that much power."
His father nodded slowly. "You’ve gathered quite a family."
"I guess I have."
They reached a clearing with a simple stone bench overlooking a valley of clouds. Adam’s father sat, patting the space beside him. Adam sat.
"Tell about the God you killed," his father said quietly.
Adam was silent for a mont. Then: "You know about that?"
"I’m a god now, son. I feel things—ripples in the fabric of existence." He looked at Adam with calm, steady eyes. "I want to hear it from you."
Adam stared out at the clouds. "His God."
"And you ended him."
"I ended him." Adam turned to look at his father. "Does that bother you? You were always a believer. Church every Sunday. Bible by the bed. You raised us to fear God, to love God, to trust in his plan."
His father was quiet for a long mont. Then he smiled—not the gentle smile from before, but sothing sadder, wiser.
"I was a believer," he said. "I raised you in the faith because it was what I knew, what my parents taught , what their parents taught them. It gave comfort. Purpose. Hope that there was sothing more after this life." He reached out and placed a hand on Adam’s knee. "But I also raised you to think for yourself. To question. To never accept sothing just because soone in authority told you it was true."
Adam said nothing.
"When you were seven," his father continued, "you ca ho from Sunday school and asked why God let bad things happen to good people. I gave you the standard answer—free will, mysterious ways, all of it. And you looked at with those eyes of yours and said, ’That’s not fair, Dad. If he’s all-powerful, he could stop it. If he’s all-good, he would want to. So why doesn’t he?’"
Adam rembered. Vaguely. Like a dream half-forgotten.
"I didn’t have an answer," his father said. "Not a real one. I told you we’d talk about it when you were older. But I knew, even then, that you were different. That you wouldn’t just accept what you were told. That if sothing seed wrong to you, you’d question it. Fight it. Change it."
He squeezed Adam’s knee gently. "So no, son. It doesn’t bother that you killed a false god. It doesn’t surprise either. I always knew what kind of child I’d raised. What kind of man he’d beco."
Adam’s throat tightened again. "Dad..."
"I’m proud of you." His father’s voice was firm, certain. "Not because of the power you have, or the beings you’ve defeated, or the worlds you’ve shaped. I’m proud of you because you’re still you. Still my son. Still the boy who asked hard questions and wouldn’t settle for easy answers. Still the man who protects the helpless and stands up to tyrants, no matter what form they take."
Adam looked away, blinking rapidly. When he spoke, his voice was rough.
"I missed you."
"I know, son. I missed you too." His father pulled him into a hug—the sa kind of hug he’d given Adam a thousand tis as a child, warm and safe and full of love. "But I’ve been watching. Every mont. And I’ve never stopped being proud."
They sat like that for a long ti, father and son, in a garden between worlds, while the clouds drifted past and the light stayed golden and eternal.
When Adam finally pulled back, his eyes were dry but red-rimd. He managed a smile.
"So. You’re a god now. How’s that working out?"
His father laughed. "It’s strange. I won’t pretend otherwise. One day I’m dying, the next I’m waking up in a realm of light with beings bowing to and asking for guidance." He shook his head. "I’m still figuring it out."
"Any advice? From a divine perspective?"
"Love people. Protect them. Give them room to grow and make mistakes and learn." His father shrugged. "Sa advice I’d give anyone, really. Godhood doesn’t change the fundantals."
Adam nodded slowly. "That’s... actually pretty wise."
"I have my monts."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the clouds.
"I should go soon," Adam said reluctantly. "rlin’s waiting. And there’s sothing happening in his world—a god waking up. Dagon. He might need help."
"I understand." His father stood, pulling Adam up with him. "But co back. Whenever you can. This realm will always be open to you."
Adam nodded. "I will."
They embraced one more ti—longer this ti, neither wanting to let go.
Then Adam stepped back, smiled one last ti, and vanished.
His father stood alone in the garden, watching the space where his son had been.
"Safe travels, my boy," he whispered. "Co ho soon."
Reviews
All reviews (0)