They were not the colors of light as mortals once knew them, but tones of essence—shades of remembrance, breaths of emotion. Some glowed like memory, others shimmered like forgiveness. Each hue was a vibration of meaning, born not to be seen, but to be felt.
From them arose new harmonies, not of matter or motion, but of being. They coalesced into patterns, soft and fleeting, like ripples in a pond that had forgotten how to end. Those ripples became dreams once more—not dreams of what could be, but gentle reflections of what already was.
And in those dreams, the Infinite moved again.
Not as a creator dividing the canvas from the paint, but as the brush, the stroke, and the stillness between them. His essence danced through existence as art without purpose, beauty without audience. It was creation returning to its purest form—play.
