The Return of Moses

The world was trembling again. Nations rose and fell like the tides, and war had become routine—its thunder echoing through glass towers and digital screens. Corruption no longer hid behind curtains; it stood proudly on platforms, smiling for cameras. Truth had become a currency only the poor still valued.

And yet, in the midst of this chaos, something ancient stirred.

Beneath a shroud of mist, far from the eyes of satellites and soldiers, the Garden still lived. It had never left the earth—only hidden itself from mankind’s arrogance. The rivers still flowed, clear as crystal. The trees still bore fruit of light and memory. The air carried no pollution, no deceit, no noise—only the whisper of God’s first breath.

And tending it, as he had since time was measured, was a man forgotten by the world but remembered by Heaven.

Moses.

He walked among the trees in silence, hands rough from centuries of care, eyes reflecting both sorrow and patience. Each dawn he rose to pray—not for himself, but for humanity—hoping that one day, someone worthy might find their way back.

That day came not by prophecy, but by accident.

A boy of sixteen cast his fishing line into a forbidden river that ran along the outskirts of a desolate valley. The line snagged something unseen, and as he pulled, the water shimmered. For a moment, the veil between worlds trembled…and tore.

When the boy stumbled through the mist, he did not find a monster or a miracle. He found a man waiting, staff in hand, eyes like burning coals beneath the weight of eternity.

And so began the Return of Moses.