Vachon Imagined

It rose from the ground — not with thunder, but with the slow, deliberate breaking of silence, soil, and depth. Something ancient pushing upward, asking to be named. One voice said, ah yes, this must be alpha. Another shouted from behind him, no, no — it’s omega, the words colliding in a language he didn’t recognize.

He turned, saw the stranger’s mouth shaping symbols he couldn’t decipher, and suddenly the two were fighting — not with fists, but with certainty, each insisting the silence meant something different.

But the silence had no patience for them.

It swallowed their arguments first, then their shapes, then the very idea of them. Their meanings collapsed. Their bodies thinned. Their voices unthreaded.

And the light kept shining. And the life kept going — sometimes bright, sometimes loud — but without them.

Because in the end, there was no alpha. There was no omega. There were no men arguing over the naming of the beginning or the end.