In the beginning, there was no emptiness.
What existed was order without witnesses.
The cosmos was not born from a noisy explosion, but from a decision that was never heard. The laws of nature emerged without announcement, arranged neatly as if they had long been waiting to take effect. Space unfolded with no intention of being understood. Time flowed with no concern for whether anyone observed it.
And above all of that, not at the peak of space, not at the end of time, God exists.
Not as light.
Not as a voice.
Not as a cause that can be traced.
He dwells in the Rest in High Places, Fotèy, not as a location, but as an absolute state: a place where existence requires no justification, and meaning requires no audience. God does not watch the cosmos; the cosmos depends on Him without ever being able to look back.
The existence of God does not disrupt the laws of nature.
Rather, the laws of nature stand precisely because He does not need to intervene.
Deep within that ordered cosmos, on a planet called Taurari, lives a race that has long made peace with the heaviest fact they have ever inherited: God is Absolutely Present, yet never appears as direct experience.
They call themselves the Hayzarim.
The Hayzarim are not a foolish race, nor are they a despairing one. They map galaxies, measure the pulse of stars, and understand the mechanisms of reality down to layers that no longer require myth. Yet the more complete their knowledge of how the universe works becomes, the quieter the question of why grows.
They do not deny God.
They do not argue against Him.
They simply live beneath Him, without ever receiving a sign.
Their religion, Khani'a, was born not from revelation, but from honesty. It does not promise salvation, does not offer certainty, and does not claim to possess God. Khani'a teaches only one thing that mature consciousness is able to bear:
that God never belongs to creatures.
Names such as I Yu'os, ʻO ke akua, Diosawa, Taqi ch'amani, and K'anon are not His identity, but the scars of language, attempts by creatures to name something that never descends into the realm of naming.
On Taurari, there are no towering temples.
There are only observation towers, facing a sky too vast to be believed in naively.
And among the Hayzarim who have learned to live with that tension, a single consciousness was born that refused to remain silent.
His name was Mea ʻimi.
He did not doubt God. Precisely because God certainly exists, Mea ʻimi could not accept a life that proceeded as if that existence demanded no existential consequence at all. For him, accepting God as a fact without attempting to understand the position of creatures before Him was a form of surrender that came too quickly.
Mea ʻimi felt something that could not be reduced to instinct, tradition, or psychological disturbance: metaphysical longing, a drive to understand how consciousness ought to live in a cosmos sustained by God, yet never touched by Him directly.
He realized one terrifying thing:
that perhaps reality was indeed designed so that creatures would always remain at a safe distance from God, close enough to long for Him, too far to grasp Him.
So when the cosmos continued to turn without answers, and Taurari remained stable in its polite silence, Mea ʻimi chose a path not taken by the majority: he made the search itself his destiny.
Not to find God.
Not to prove Him.
But to test a single question too heavy to ignore:
"If God is Most Perfect and Most Near,
why is consciousness allowed to walk alone beneath Him?"
That journey promised no enlightenment.
It promised only honesty.
And above all of it, God remained in Fotèy,
unmoving, unspoken, with no need to justify Himself.
Because in this cosmos,
what is being tested is not God.
What is being tested is the creature who dares to be conscious.