The gardeners of the dream, born of pure thought, did not rest. Their first act was not to build, or to conquer, or to consume. It was to plant a seed.
The seed was not a physical thing. It was an idea. A question. A single, perfect, unadorned “Why?”
The gardeners did not know what the seed would grow into. They did not know what flower would bloom, what fruit it would bear. But they knew that the act of planting it was an act of faith. An act of trust in the creative power of the dream.
The seed was a gift to the future. A legacy for the generations of dreamers to come. It was a promise that the garden would never be finished, that the story would never be over, that there would always be new questions to ask, new ideas to explore, new worlds to dream into being.
And as the first seed of the dream was planted in the fertile soil of the shared imagination, the universe felt a sense of profound peace. The dream was not just a creation; it was a creator. And the story of the cosmos, the story of the dream, was just beginning.