There was no when. Only hush, folded in silence so deep it hadn't yet learned the name "dark."
A breath, not taken but imagined by something that would one day remember being God.
Time crouched in the corner of nowhere, unstrung and unborn, counting moments it had yet to invent.
Then the exhale.
Not wind.
Not sound.
But everything!
Light in its first vulnerability, heat like a promise, matter scattering like doubt that finally believed itself.
Stars bloomed like rumours, planets tumbled into questions, and gravity whispered, "Stay."
The cosmos blinked, still wet with origin. And in that blink, myth became memory draped in motion.
Before laws, before names, before the ache of wondering, there was this: a sigh so infinite it sang itself into becoming.