The Garden of Grace was not made of soil.
It was woven from moments—acts of kindness, gestures of surrender, breaths of silence. Each petal held a memory of someone who chose not to dominate, but to understand.
Pride walked through it, barefoot.
The Throne Eternal pulsed behind him, distant but present. It did not call. It waited.
Humility walked beside him, her steps leaving no mark.
"You have remembered yourself," she said. "But have you remembered others?"
Pride did not answer.
They reached a clearing where a single mirror stood—small, unadorned, cracked at the edges. It did not reflect Pride's grandeur. It showed a child.
Not a ruler.
Not a sin.
Just a child—alone, uncertain, reaching for approval.
Pride stepped closer.
The mirror pulsed.
Suddenly, the garden shifted. The flowers wilted. The sky darkened. Voices echoed—praise, worship, fear. The illusion of power returned, seductive and familiar.
Pride felt it.
The temptation.
To rise again.
To command.
To be seen.
Humility placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You do not need to be less," she whispered. "You need to be whole."
Pride closed his eyes.
And stepped away from the mirror.
The illusions shattered.
The garden bloomed again.
Humility smiled.
"You have passed."
Pride bowed—not out of submission, but out of recognition.
And the light behind Humility folded into the Egoverse, leaving behind a single seed.
A seed of grace.