"Welcome, my creation."
A shiver coursed through every soul present, as if lightning itself had struck.
Those clutching symbols of faith—whether Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or of other creeds—fell to their knees, unable to meet the gaze of the being taking shape before them.
First came a golden light, glowing like the runes. Then the mist gathered, weaving itself into a body that shifted and oscillated without cease: a serene-faced man became an ethereal woman, only to fill with countless, beautiful yet unsettling eyes, and finally transform into something beyond comprehension for minds bound to three dimensions.
To Albert, the presence felt as warm as a mother's embrace and as distant as the gleam of a far-off star, awakening in him the same smallness he felt beneath the night sky; clear as a thought, and yet ambiguous as a dream upon waking.
"You—the finest of your kind still living—are here because I have chosen you."
The divine words left a silence that was quickly broken by a cry of rapture from the kneeling faithful. They wept with fervor, unable to contain their joy.
"Allāh!" shouted a brown-skinned man, tears streaming down his face as he recognized the presence. "The one true God!"
His proclamation sparked fury from a priest clutching the cross at his neck:
"Blasphemy! It is the Father of Jesus Christ! The Creator of heaven and earth!"
Upon hearing another mistake in front of "Yahweh!", a rabbi had no choice but to correct them with a red face, "It is Yahweh! The one and only true name of God!"
The murmur among the crowd swelled rapidly. Words became shouts, and shouts turned into arguments—even before the very God each claimed as their own.
Suddenly, the shifting light blazed brighter, crushing the disputes in an instant. Then the chorus of voices spoke again:
"I am the Creator of all you know.
I was the lightning you feared in your caves, the fire that freed you from the darkness, the Father of a crucified Son, and the Revealer who guided Muhammad.
I have been every figure, every image you have worshipped—and yet none of you are truly my followers, for my teachings were twisted and bent to serve the interests of those who wrote and proclaimed them."
The believers looked at one another, bewildered and stunned. Some had to steady themselves on the transparent ground as they faced the same crushing question, the same existential crisis:
'If I was not chosen for my faith… then why!?'
As though the very thought were enough, the figure replied:
"I chose you not for your dogmas...
Among you are scientists who have sought to unravel the secrets of my creation. Writers and musicians who have crafted works reflecting the sparks of inspiration with which I shaped you.
Philosophers who have questioned the very nature of existence. And others, whose wisdom or faith has left behind a virtuous mark."
Young Robert, his voice trembling and barely audible, dared to whisper to himself:
"I-I haven't done anything that great."
Though it was no more than the faint murmur of a child, scarcely louder than a thought, before the master of the dimension it was, as became clear, more than enough.
The answer did not come in the form of a choral voice, but with a simple motion of a "hand"—if one could call the shifting tip of its changing limbs such a thing.
It seemed more like a feathered wing when, all at once, the entire assembly cried out, clutching their heads—children and adults alike—struggling to withstand the unstoppable torrent of memories invading their minds.
In that moment, all bore witness to the power of God, who granted them visions of futures yet to be lived: the bonds they would forge, the works they would leave behind, and the tragedies that would mark them.
Some, unable to endure it, vomited or collapsed, pale, onto the transparent floor.
Marie Curie and Santiago Ramón y Cajal, standing nearer to the end of their lives, experienced something less overwhelming—yet enough to make them aware of the looming conflict that would ravage Europe.
Both shared a calm that could only be described as acceptance.
Albert, meanwhile, was swept into a torrent of equations and theories. When the flood of memories ceased, his face was pale, his hands visibly trembling, as he fought the urge to retch after beholding both the best and the worst of humankind at once
He saw how his name would become a symbol of human genius, how his theories would transform the very mindset of the world—yet also how humanity would twist science into an instrument of mass destruction.
That was what made him turn to the seven-year-old boy at his side.
A disturbing image: a child with the expression of an old man who had already seen and done far too much.
"Robert…" Albert said, his voice stripped of the paternal warmth it had carried only moments before.
"Professor… who would have thought we'd meet again in a place like this…"
answered the father of the atomic bomb, clad in cowboy pajamas, before finishing with a glance around him—now with a wholly new comprehension:
"Beyond the confines of time and space."
For young Robert, only seven years old, that cruel "miracle" was as though his soul had been torn from his body and hurled across the decades he had yet to live.
In the span of a blink, he endured the friendships, rivalries, and loves that would shape his character; the global conflicts that would tear the world apart; the project he would not only join but lead; and the crushing burden of becoming the… Destroyer of worlds.
Albert, watching as Robert once more studied his trembling little hands, as though still trying to process it all, lifted his gaze and gave the "boy" the space he needed.
What made him narrow his eyes was the sight of a young man staring straight at him from among the kneeling crowd.
At first, he didn't recognize him—until a fragment of an unwritten letter surfaced in his mind, along with a phrase that rang out with startling clarity:
'A Day Without Yesterday...'
Only then did he realize who he was looking at—someone with whom, he now understood, he would one day share ideas and debates that would change the very way humanity conceived the universe.
The Belgian priest and astronomer, Georges Lemaître.
Albert returned a barely perceptible smile, a quiet gesture of recognition amid the fervent adoration that had erupted from those who believed they had just witnessed a "miracle" of God.
Then... Curie, Santiago, Albert and the others—men, women, and children who no longer seemed bound by age or time, like a ten-year-old Enrico Fermi or a seven-year-old Otto Robert Frisch—began to drift together almost unconsciously.
They divided into two groups: those who knelt in faith, and those who remained standing with logic.
The latter were not without emotion. They were excited, even afraid. Before them rose the supposed creator of the universe, the very source of the mysteries they had devoted their lives to unraveling. And yet, something deeply human held them back: a spark of skepticism, of reasoned doubt, of questions still left unanswered.
'Who was this so-called "creator," truly?' 'Why had he chosen them?' 'And above all: how would he treat his creation now that he had chosen to reveal himself?'
'Something could be beautiful and yet… radioactive,' thought Marie Curie, as if her scientific mind—trained to question the unknown—were colliding with the overwhelming presence of the divine.
That very skepticism, the force that drew them together and kept them standing, holding his gaze for as long as they could, settled deeper and spread when God at last answered those unspoken doubts—calmly, yet with an overwhelming weight:
"Humanity stands at its twilight. I have beheld its growth, past and yet to come, and I have resolved that, before I bestow more of my time, this chapter shall be closed."
In the silence that spread like frost across the crowd,the shifting form swept its gaze across the crowd. Then, with a choral voice both calm and crushing, it ended:
"But to you, whom I have chosen, I grant ascension—the privilege of becoming my angels, to aid me in the creations yet unborn."