Chameleon Magazine

In a land of beginnings, where silence still clung to the stones, the earth stirred. First came a breath of mist, rising not from the heavens but from the deep places below. It rolled across the barren ground like a hidden tide, cooling the dust, feeding the first shoots of green, teaching the people that blessing does not always fall from the sky—sometimes it rises from beneath their very feet.

From this soil, dust was gathered into form. A figure was shaped, perfect in shape but hollow. Then came a breath—not of air alone, but of meaning, story, and memory. The figure stirred and stood, not clay but living soul, carrying both fragility and fire within.

The soul wandered until it reached a garden not planted by its own hands. Trees grew there in secret order, their roots deep in the mist-fed earth, their branches heavy with gifts. The traveler knew then: some places are not earned, but entrusted. Life itself was such a garden.

At the garden’s heart stood two trees. One offered fruit that healed, the other fruit that revealed. Many argued which was greater—life or knowledge—but a gardener of old spoke: They are companions, not rivals. Yet to taste without wisdom is to turn gift into poison.

Through it all, a river wound, singing. It burst from one spring and parted into four mighty streams, each carving its own valley, each sustaining its own people. And though the valleys quarreled, claiming their river alone was pure, the waters knew their secret—they were all children of the same hidden source.

Thus the mist, the breath, the garden, the trees, and the river wove together a story: a world where life is gift, wisdom is guidance, and every stream of blessing returns to one beginning.

“Life rises from hidden places, breath turns dust to soul, gifts are entrusted not earned, wisdom guards the fruit, and all streams return to one source.”