The Weight of Sorrow

The Creator sat at a table carved from the very first dawn, its surface smooth and cool beneath their hands. Before them lay not the vibrant fruits of Eden, nor the shining rivers, but a simple meal. A loaf of bread, baked from the earth’s first golden grain, still warm and smelling of sunshine. A bowl of glistening olives, dark as the deepest night, each one a tiny, perfect sphere. And a pitcher of water, clear and pure, drawn from a spring that had bubbled into existence with the first breath of life. It was a meal of beginnings, a meal of sustenance, a meal that spoke of quiet, enduring love.

But the Creator’s gaze was distant, fixed on something far beyond the humble spread. Their heart, a vast expanse that held the joy of creation, now ached with a sorrow so profound it threatened to dim the very stars. It was a grief that had no voice, no outward cry, only a deep, internal tremor that vibrated through the fabric of existence. They had poured their very essence into Eden, into Adam and Eve, into the vibrant tapestry of life that had unfurled so beautifully at first. And then… the whisper. The doubt. The choice.

The letters, scattered like fallen leaves across the dawn-wood table, were their only companions in this quiet hour. Each one was a testament to that initial, overflowing love, a love so fierce it had birthed worlds. But as the Creator reread the earlier missives, the words seemed to shimmer with a different light, tinged with the shadow of what was to come.