The child called them mother and father—
that is who they were to the little one.
Innocent, curious, full of life—
the source of all creation,
the one before all.
Inside the cage the child made alone
was a lush and boundless paradise,
filled with every kind of living being—
all of which the child allowed to exist.
Though there were also things the child did not allow—
a few, lesser in number—
and these were cast out.
To the creatures within this walled paradise,
the child was the greatest of all,
the most divine.
For the most part,
the child loved to observe,
but disliked being part
of the little world they made.
And that is where the parents came in.
Both the man and the woman
were without knowledge
of why they arrived there—
yet they were tasked
to care for and manage the place.
The child loved these parents that came.
But—oh, there is always a catch—
the child could be, at times, a tyrant.
There were rules to follow,
tasks to obey,
restrictions never to be broken.
At first, both mother and father
enjoyed their life in paradise.
They gave it a better, more familiar name—
a garden.
The child found the name pleasing,
and so allowed it.
But unlike the child,
the parents were lesser beings—
flawed and fragile.
One imperfection they bore
was mortality.
And with such brief lives,
both the man and the woman
yearned for something more.
But the child would not allow it.
The parents insisted
they could be more—
if only they could leave.
The child grew enraged
and summoned other beings
to restrain the man and woman.
These beings bore flaming swords,
great wings,
and voices that could lull like song—
or thunder loud enough
to shake the garden itself.
The man and woman were afraid.
The joy and color once in their faces
faded away.
They longed to live freely,
yet found themselves prisoners
within the paradise—
the one place meant to be perfect.
So they continued to live,
trapped inside the garden.
Until one day,
the woman found something—
the one thing that could drive them out.
It was the child’s most prized possession,
the most sacred creation:
a tree bearing the fruit of knowledge.
A tree so rare,
so delicate,
that the child adorned it
with moats, traps,
signs, and warnings to all beings
never to touch it.
The woman had found the child’s weakness—
a ticket to freedom.
When night fell
and the child wandered elsewhere,
the woman, with freedom in mind,
set the tree on fire.
And there came a fire—
the great fire in the garden.
Sensing the ruin,
the child rushed to the sacred tree,
accompanied by the greater beings.
The tree was gone—
burnt to ash.
Almost everything nearby
had vanished.
The child wept.
“Who did this?”
the child cried.
With her mind fixed on escape,
the woman stepped forward.
“It was us,” she said.
“Both he and I did this.”
The man, bewildered,
remained silent,
realizing too late
that it had been her plan all along.
“Now,” the woman continued,
“you have no choice but to cast us out.”
“It had to be done,”
the man whispered.
The child wept again,
for in that moment
something even more precious
was about to be lost.
A rule had been made—
and it must be followed:
only the good may remain in the garden.
Those that are not
must leave.
With bitter tears,
resentment, and regret,
the child bid the parents goodbye.
But that was not
where the story ended.
There must still be punishment.
The child, in loneliness
and divinity,
knew that forgiveness
was a virtue.
And so, before granting it,
the child chose first to wander—
to observe the world
as both a silent deity
and as one
who walks in the shoes
of the parents
that once abandoned
their lonely child.
