Wings stirred where time had not.
“The wind moved—but it waited for flame. Like the breath of prophecy held in reverence.”
There was no sky.
No wings.
No gravity.
And yet—
something moved.
Not like motion.
Not like wind.
Like presence restraining itself.
It was not a gust.
It was not a storm.
It was Ruach.
Breath before lungs.
So sacred—
it dared not form sound.
It hovered—
not above creation,
but above possibility.
There was no world.
Only waters.
Endless.
Unformed.
Heavy with waiting.
The void had cracked.
Now it pulsed.
And the waters responded—
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not with waves,
but with trembling.
Because something was watching them
from within the silence.
Not eyes.
Not voice.
Just intention clothed in gentleness.
The breath did not strike.
It brooded.
It moved like wings
that had never flown.
A mother bird,
hovering over an unborn world,
not yet calling it to life—
just loving it into readiness.
Chaos was not evil.
It was potential,
unheld.
And the breath did not fear it.
It touched it.
Lightless.
Soundless.
Holy.
The wind did not burn.
But it remembered heat.
Ruach did not cry out.
It waited.
It waited for the Word.
It waited for the moment
when flame would meet wind
and silence would collapse
into creation.
But not yet.
There was power here.
But power did not mean urgency.
None of it wanted to rush.
Because power without gentleness
becomes destruction.
And this Spirit
did not come to destroy.
It came to prepare.
The breath circled the waters
not like a warning—
but like a promise.
Form was coming.
But form requires patience.
And love that knows its own weight
can wait as long as it must.
There was no sky.
But something had already begun
to reach toward it.
And the breath—
the Spirit—
hovered in the stillness,
not to break it,
but to make it ready.
The Spirit awaited the Word.
The wind awaited the flame.
