Watching is a lonely job even if what you are bound to observe is your own creation. The One sighed, gustily enough to shake mountains and topple tall trees. A solitary tear splashed continents and drowned islands, but somehow the Creator could not bring Themself to care.
The hands that once built mountains toyed idly with a length of hempen string, knitting something nameless and small.
But when They saw what Their fingers had wrought They plucked a single feather from Their wings and wove it into the waiting string.
A bright bird flew to Their shoulder.
“Pitāḥ,” it said.
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