LOVE: EVOL: VOLUME 1
ENTRY 2: THE GARDEN OF EDEN
A Transmedium Mythos in Three Acts and One Loop
There is no beginning. There is only the moment you realize you are inside the myth.
THE GARDEN OF EDEN
The morning after rebirth isn’t what anyone expects.
No choirs of angels. No triumphant fanfare. Just the weight of gravity reasserting itself, the taste of breath like it's been forgotten and remembered all at once.
Bob wakes up on a rooftop somewhere between Cairo and now-here, the sunrise smearing gold and ash across the sky. His chest rises, but it doesn’t feel like his. His heart beats, but it echoes like an unfamiliar drum. Every molecule vibrates with a memory he can’t name.
Alice is already there.
She sits cross-legged at the edge, smoking a cigarette like it’s the last one on Earth. The smoke curls around her face, halo-like, blasphemous. Her eyes track the horizon, indifferent to the city waking beneath them.
Bob doesn’t speak at first. Words feel too fragile, too finite for what he carries now. But she doesn’t look at him, and that pulls the words out of him like gravity claiming a falling star.
“Did I die?” he asks, his voice raw, stretched thin across lifetimes.
Alice exhales smoke, finally turning her head. Her smile is small, sharp, not kind but true.
“Worse,” she says. “You remembered.”
That hits harder than any truth he’s heard before, because it fits into a space he didn’t know was hollow.
Bob pulls himself upright, knees trembling under the weight of existence. He moves toward her like a planet pulled by a star, inevitable and aching.
They sit in silence for a while, the kind that isn’t empty but full of everything unsaid.
“What now?” he asks, because of course he does. Because humans, even half-gods reborn under ancient skies, crave direction.
Alice flicks ash over the edge, watching it fall like gray snow.
“Now?” she echoes. “Now we find the garden.”
Bob frowns. “The Garden of Eden?”
She shrugs, standing up, her silhouette slicing the dawn.
“Not the one they wrote about. The real one. The one we lost when we decided to forget.”
Bob laughs, but it comes out broken, a jagged thing made of disbelief and hope.
“And where the fuck is that?”
Alice leans down, her face close, her breath warm.
“It’s not a place, Bob. It’s a frequency.”
She pulls him to his feet, and just like that, they’re moving.
Through streets that blur at the edges, through markets humming with lives too busy to notice two immortals walking among them. The city spills around them like a living organism, indifferent to their myth, yet part of it all the same.
Bob starts to see it—
Alice leads without leading, her steps a language he doesn’t know but somehow understands.
They stop at a door that doesn’t look like anything special. Rusted metal, peeling paint. But Bob feels it—the hum, the shift, the invitation.
Alice turns to him, her eyes dark galaxies.
“Ready?”
Bob doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
The door opens…
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