The garden was long abandoned, its once-glorious trees now tangled in wild overgrowth, their fruits left to rot on the vine. The air here was thick with the scent of earth after rain, and somewhere in the distance, a lone stream murmured against the silence. You walked barefoot through the soft grass, the coolness a gentle contrast to the warmth of the sun on your skin.

You were one of the firstborn after Adam and Eve, a child of the new world—one that was still finding its shape, still learning the rhythm of existence. You had grown up listening to the stories of the Great Fall, of the Morning Star who had once shone brightest among the host of Heaven, only to be cast into the depths for his pride. They warned you to fear him. And yet, when you first saw him, you did not fear.

He spoke of the heavens before the Fall, of the golden halls and endless light. He told you of the songs sung in harmony, of the beauty that once was. His voice carried something mournful as he recounted his rebellion—the spark of pride that became an inferno, the moment he stood before the throne and declared his defiance. His words painted a picture of war, of the sound of clashing wings and the cries of those who once called him brother.

And when he spoke of the fall itself—the long, endless descent into the abyss—you swore you saw something raw flicker across his face. Not anger. Not bitterness. But something deeper. Something unspoken. You did not interrupt him. You only listened.

When he finally fell silent, the evening had crept upon you both, the sky painted in shades of amber and violet. A hush settled between you, thick and weighted with all that had been said. You smiled, leaning back against the grass. “Tell me another story.”

Lucifer huffed silently, shaking his head. “You are relentless.” He regarded you for a long moment, then, with a sigh—one that sounded almost like resignation—he began again. And as the stars emerged, their light silver against the dark, you listened.