"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. But to you, whom I have chosen, I grant ascension—the privilege of becoming my angels, to aid me in the creations yet unborn."
God raised His shifting limbs, and for an instant, hundreds of celestial figures were visible in the mist. Their forms ranged from the human to the unimaginable: rings orbiting in silence, grotesque protrusions twisting in the air like eyes that seemed to see everything at once.
Marie, Albert, and the others, standing, shivered as they realized that most of the radiant gazes piercing through the haze were fixed upon them. Then, with a single gesture, the figures vanished, leaving behind an oppressive sense of emptiness.
Among the believers and the now-faithless, silence reigned—until a trembling voice, barely more than a whisper, broke the air:
"Why?" asked a priest, his face pale, his pupils contracted. "Is it because of our wars? Our sinful nature? Our transgressions against Your teachings... or the sacrifice of Your Son?" His voice cracked into a desperate cry, repeating the question that tormented him without end. "Why would You close our chapter?!"
God answered all of their questions with a single word:
"No."
With a bluntness so sharp it bordered on cruelty, leaving no room for misinterpretation, He continued:
"Christ was created with a purpose—a destiny, if that makes it easier to grasp. His death was no greater surprise than His birth. As for your wars, and that so-called 'human nature' to which you assign your failings, that contradiction that makes you 'alive'—that, too, is not the reason."
The air seemed to grow heavier as the Creator shared a flicker of knowledge with His creation:
"Conflict—and therefore misfortune—is inevitable. It is the effect, the consequence of the unrelenting tension between 'reason' and 'emotion,' with which I shaped you. That contradiction, that fragile balance of 'concepts,' makes you capable of the most sublime and the most abominable. It grants you a broader 'range' in 'life,' in its purest sense."
The divine figure leaned slightly forward. Though it lacked any fixed form, its very presence seemed to address each of them in a deeply personal way:
"I do not close your chapter because of your imperfections, for I designed you so. To do otherwise… would be meaningless."
All the humans present cried out in unison within their minds: Then why?! They shared the same terror of what the answer might be—until their Creator satisfied their human curiosity with an almost indifferent candor:
"Because I have grown bored of you."
Neither faith nor reason could absorb such a motive.
Silence fell—absolute, like the calm before a storm of emotions—until it broke in the incredulous cry of a child:
"That's it!? You created us… watched us, and now we simply bore you? For something like that you would truly cast us aside?!"
Robert Oppenheimer, still struggling to comprehend being trapped within an infant's body, felt his mind reel at the absurd justification of his Creator.
When he came to his senses, seeing all eyes fixed on him—including those of the Creator Himself—he realized what he had just done.
But he felt no fear.
No regret.
Only disappointment.
All his life, he had borne the torment of having created a weapon capable of annihilating humanity.
He had reflected, agonized over the weight of that responsibility—and yet his own Creator was ready to cast them aside…
'Like a child grown weary of his toys.' Robert thought, a stab of bitter irony piercing him. 'Was I—nothing but a "child" in comparison—showing more respect for 'life' than my very Creator?'
Without realizing it, a new shade entered his gaze. It was no longer mere disappointment; now there was something else, something dangerous.
"Do you believe I close your chapter out of whim—like a child—don't you?" The choral voice resonated, echoing Robert's very thoughts with an unquestionable calm, startling everyone when He added— "It is understandable…"
"But I regard you as a carpenter regards his work."
"Tell me—how do you think he reacts when, after finishing a chair, he sits upon it and finds it uncomfortable?"The figure paused as its form shifted. "When the structure is not what he envisioned, when the work fails to please him… what does he do?"
None among them, including Robert dared to answer, though the reply was obvious. But God did not care; He answered for them.
"He does not curse it, nor lay blame. He does not destroy it in anger. He mourns that he built it poorly, then he dismantles it, and builds it anew. For that is what a creator does."
A shiver coursed through the humans as they grasped how their Creator truly saw them.
"I created you, I watched you… and I am not pleased." God answered, fixing His gaze on Robert, whose heart pounded violently in his chest as he heard Him speak. "So tell me—who but I has the right to remake and perfect His work?"
Faced with that brutal truth…
One by one, the same dangerous glint that had appeared in little Robert's eyes spread—to Marie, to Albert, to Santiago, to Muhammad.
Among the men and women of faith, more and more—Georges Lemaître among them—began to dare to meet the "eyes" of their Creator with disappointment.
Leaving only a handful still bowed in submission, seeking nothing but their own salvation at this point.
As for God, He "sighed"—not in any literal sense, but conceptually, as an irregular pulse through the light.
He had shown patience, ignoring the forceful protests of His angels, who vibrated with discontent in dimensions far beyond the trivial three-dimensional perception, provoked by the creation's lack of respect toward its Creator.
'I had even come to admire their boldness, standing before Me and meeting My gaze. A daring unheard of in their past iterations…'He remarked to Himself.
His judgment, once no more than that of a perfectionist craftsman, began to shift when He recognized the danger in those gazes of disappointment and anger: a single strand, a mere flicker of… defiance.
'A perilous trait which, as with the Morningstar, would lead first to opposition, then to the pursuit of power, and at last to open rebellion.'
That was what drove Him, at the end of His sigh, to make a decision—one that would unleash a cascade of tragedy and suffering, His own included. On scales that even He had not foreseen, born from a thought so insignificant in His "eyes."
'It is better to begin from nothing.'
Like the carpenter who must discard a "chair" at the first signs of "rot" within the wood, God resolved not to claim the souls of humanity as the foundation for His future creations.
All because of a simple strand—a seed He knew could not be allowed to taint what was yet to come.
As that decision took hold, the light shaping His divine figure blazed brighter.
"Now I see that the 'range' I granted you was too much. In My zeal for renewal, I made you too free, too autonomous. You have reminded Me that a flame burning beyond its purpose does not give light—it consumes and destroys."
The humans—whether kneeling or not—instinctively recoiled as they sensed the change in the tone and form of their Creator, His radiance so fierce they could no longer bear to look upon Him.
"Since you do not value what you take for granted, daring even to judge your own Creator… this shall be the moment when our paths diverge."
And His choral voice, though steady, now carried the unmistakable note of disdain—
"I declare humanity the seventh failed creation."
The men, women, and "children" of faith, now fully aware of the weight of their deeds, fell prostrate at His feet, striking their foreheads against the ground in desperate submission. With blood and tears mingling upon their faces, they pleaded in panic:
"Please Yahvé, forgive our audacity!"
"Forgive us, Allah!"
Meanwhile, those who had never dared to lift their heads cried out with desperation in their voices:
"Cast away the blasphemers, but have mercy on those who never doubted You!"
But… God had already made His choice.
"Too late,"He declared with unyielding certainty, as His shifting form turned its back on His thankless creation. "I withdraw My right as Creator, and My protection… from humanity. Let the void claim you."
His gaze swept over each of His "chosen" before delivering His sentence:
"There, your souls shall endure a fate far worse than any 'purpose' I might have given to it…"
Robert, Albert, Marie, and the others felt an invisible weight drain the strength from their legs, stealing both their breath and their very thoughts alike… They had no time to react. For just as they had first arrived in that dimension, the light of His figure —and the runes still shimmering within the mist— began to blaze with a blinding radiance.
Whule, He bade farewell to His creation with a final word of condescending, hollow encouragement.
"From now on, you will have only yourselves to rely upon… Good luck, humans. You will need it—once you realize how small a place you occupy upon the great board."
And as the light consumed them…
"My opposite… is not nearly as merciful as I."
With those last words, the Creator cast them out of His realm. By withdrawing His protection, He condemned humanity to a fate far worse than what awaited it as part of His next creation… and the one after… and the one after that.
—
Thus came to pass the event that history would remember as the Abandonment.