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 himse...