They told us it was perfect. I was born after the Garden had closed, but my grandfather used to whisper stories of the warmth that once lived in the air. He said the breeze sounded like laughter and the animals never ran away. He’d pause before the end, like even remembering it brought a sting.
My name is Sena, and I grew up outside those gates. The gates made of flame. Nobody could get near them anymore. The cherubim—those glowing, winged creatures with swords of fire—stood guard day and night. Not that anyone dared to try. We knew what happened inside.
You’ve probably heard the names already—Adam and Eve. Everyone always blames them: one bite from a tree they were told to leave alone. But my grandfather used to say, "They didn't fall alone. We all held the branch with them."
He was thousands of years old when I was young, or at least that’s what he claimed. Time felt strange then. He’d tap his walking stick and sit beside me, his voice quieter than the birds. “We were meant to live forever,” he’d tell me. “No pain. No death. We walked with Him after the dew lifted, side by side.”
I couldn’t imagine it. A day without danger? A world without thorns?
He said it started with a question. Just a whisper—but that’s all it took. The serpent wasn’t ugly, not then. It was beautiful, clever, smooth as sea-stone. It watched Eve with eyes that lied. And his voice? My grandfather shivered as he mimicked it: “Did God really say…?”
That was the moment. Not the bite. Not the crunch. But the question that made trusting God feel silly.
And she reached.
Grandfather said time went hollow then. Like something invisible had been snapped in half. Eve looked at Adam, and he looked down, and there was no laughter in the breeze anymore.
“They knew.” His voice cracked here. “They saw their skin and felt…wrong. As if shame had been stitched into them suddenly.”
I asked him once, “Why not fix it? Couldn’t God just take it all back?”
He looked at me for a long time, then said softly, “He could’ve erased us. But He didn’t. He covered us.”
He said that when God called them out of hiding, He didn’t come roaring. He came walking. Like always. His voice still warm, still kind. “Where are you?”
And when they stood trembling, covered in leaves, He told them how hard the world would become—yes. But He also made them clothes from animal skin. It was the first time blood was spilled. A life traded for a cover. Grandfather said that was the first promise—that sin costs something, but God would cover it.
Even when they had to leave the Garden, God’s love followed them into the thorns.
I still wonder what it smelled like inside the Garden. If the grass glowed at night. If the lion ever slept beside the lamb. But I don’t hate Adam. I see him sometimes near the rivers when he visits the younger tribes. His back is bent now. His eyes carry a thousand broken mornings.
But he still tells the story.
“We lost Eden,” he says. “But not God. He walked us out—and stayed near.”
I didn’t understand until I grew older. Until I made my own terrible choice—when I betrayed a friend and wanted to run. That night, I remembered: God walks toward us even when we hide.
The Garden is closed. But God never closed His heart.
And even the ones who fall—especially them—can still be found.
They told us it was perfect. I was born after the Garden had closed, but my grandfather used to whisper stories of the warmth that once lived in the air. He said the breeze sounded like laughter and the animals never ran away. He’d pause before the end, like even remembering it brought a sting.
My name is Sena, and I grew up outside those gates. The gates made of flame. Nobody could get near them anymore. The cherubim—those glowing, winged creatures with swords of fire—stood guard day and night. Not that anyone dared to try. We knew what happened inside.
You’ve probably heard the names already—Adam and Eve. Everyone always blames them: one bite from a tree they were told to leave alone. But my grandfather used to say, "They didn't fall alone. We all held the branch with them."
He was thousands of years old when I was young, or at least that’s what he claimed. Time felt strange then. He’d tap his walking stick and sit beside me, his voice quieter than the birds. “We were meant to live forever,” he’d tell me. “No pain. No death. We walked with Him after the dew lifted, side by side.”
I couldn’t imagine it. A day without danger? A world without thorns?
He said it started with a question. Just a whisper—but that’s all it took. The serpent wasn’t ugly, not then. It was beautiful, clever, smooth as sea-stone. It watched Eve with eyes that lied. And his voice? My grandfather shivered as he mimicked it: “Did God really say…?”
That was the moment. Not the bite. Not the crunch. But the question that made trusting God feel silly.
And she reached.
Grandfather said time went hollow then. Like something invisible had been snapped in half. Eve looked at Adam, and he looked down, and there was no laughter in the breeze anymore.
“They knew.” His voice cracked here. “They saw their skin and felt…wrong. As if shame had been stitched into them suddenly.”
I asked him once, “Why not fix it? Couldn’t God just take it all back?”
He looked at me for a long time, then said softly, “He could’ve erased us. But He didn’t. He covered us.”
He said that when God called them out of hiding, He didn’t come roaring. He came walking. Like always. His voice still warm, still kind. “Where are you?”
And when they stood trembling, covered in leaves, He told them how hard the world would become—yes. But He also made them clothes from animal skin. It was the first time blood was spilled. A life traded for a cover. Grandfather said that was the first promise—that sin costs something, but God would cover it.
Even when they had to leave the Garden, God’s love followed them into the thorns.
I still wonder what it smelled like inside the Garden. If the grass glowed at night. If the lion ever slept beside the lamb. But I don’t hate Adam. I see him sometimes near the rivers when he visits the younger tribes. His back is bent now. His eyes carry a thousand broken mornings.
But he still tells the story.
“We lost Eden,” he says. “But not God. He walked us out—and stayed near.”
I didn’t understand until I grew older. Until I made my own terrible choice—when I betrayed a friend and wanted to run. That night, I remembered: God walks toward us even when we hide.
The Garden is closed. But God never closed His heart.
And even the ones who fall—especially them—can still be found.
