The story
When I was around seven or eight—no one, not even I, remember the exact number—I was still just a kid chasing shadows and wondering why clouds moved. School was new, exciting, and confusing. And every now and then, after class, some of us would walk past the old nursery where we used to go before we grew "too big" for naps and snack time. It was smaller than we remembered, like most things from childhood are.
One day, on a whim, we decided to visit. Just for a second. Maybe our favorite teacher was still there, with her bright voice and big hugs. But when we stepped inside, it was quiet. The classroom lights were dimmed. No children. No laughter.
We didn't find her. Instead, a man with a cane and a kind smile stood in the hallway. Her grandfather. He recognized us right away and told us to come in and wait—she'd be back soon, he promised. He offered us mint tea, dates, and stories.
That's when everything changed.
That story. That cursed story. That one beautiful story. The reason for everything.
If only we didn't find this old man alone that day.
If only.
We wouldn't have heard the old man's tale. The story of creation. The beginning of all things.
He sat back in his chair and looked at us like we were ancient kings and queens in tiny bodies, gathered for truth. His voice was soft but heavy with memory. He said:
"Before there was time, before the sky held light or the sea had depth, there was the Divine. Not man nor beast, not fire nor wind, but something beyond. Eternal. Unseen. A will that existed before all else. The ancient would one day call him "GOD". And from that will came the world—and four mighty peoples to walk upon it."
He told us about the being called God and how he created the world and created four races, each born of the earth, each gifted with free will and the right to live upon it.
• Giants were first—colossal beings, their strength so immense that a single step could crack the crust of mountains. They were builders of stone and hammer, patient and proud, protectors of ancient forests.
• Dwarves came next—small in stature, but with minds that mirrored. They could mimic any living creature they had ever laid eyes on. A dwarf who once saw a bird could take its shape. One who studied a lion could roar with its fury. But mimicry was not just survival—it was their way of becoming part of the world.
• Jinn were born of the elements themselves. God made one male jinn—silent, empty, powerless, yet eternal. Then He made four female jinn, each tied to one of the natural forces: fire, water, earth, and wind. Their children inherited these elemental legacies, forming four tribes—each one wielding the magic of their mother's gift.
• Humans, the last to be made, were the weakest of all—frail in flesh, small in might. But God gave them the gift of intelligence—the power to question, to dream, to learn, to build. What they lacked in power, they made up for in purpose.
God gave to each race both blessing and burden. To live, to thrive, and to choose.
For a time, the world was in balance. The four peoples lived, traded, mingled. Civilizations bloomed. Towers were raised. Music echoed across mountains and deserts. The Divine watched as they grew—not perfect, but full of potential.
But then came envy. Greed. Fear.
The jinn, divided by elements, grew suspicious of one another. The giants grew angry at human expansion into their sacred lands. The dwarves, accused of spying and deceit, were hunted in their animal forms.
And so began the wars.
Endless wars. Fire raged across forests. Mountains cracked under giant fists. Rivers ran red. It was a time of betrayal, of broken pacts and ancient hatred reborn.
God, who had vowed not to interfere in mortal affairs, finally sent four prophets—one to each people. Their message was simple: stop the bloodshed. Remember your origins. Return to peace.
But the prophets were ignored.
So the four came together and prayed as one. They begged God to separate the races before the world destroyed itself.
And God listened. But not in the way they expected.
He sent an angel to each prophet, carrying the same command: every race was to build a tower of worship, a monument of unity and devotion. In two years, God would judge. The people whose tower showed the greatest faith, the most sincere devotion, would be chosen to remain. The others... would be forgotten.
War was forbidden for those two years. Peace was enforced by sacred decree. Each race labored tirelessly. They carved, they shaped, they sang as they built—stone upon stone, reaching toward the heavens.
Then, at the end of the second year, each prophet climbed their people's tower. At the same moment, across all lands, the people raised their hands in prayer.
A blinding light fell from the sky—white and pure—and struck only one tower.
The tower of humans.
The choice had been made.
The jinn vanished into storms. The giants crumbled beneath the earth. The dwarves faded into beasts and shadows. And humans remained, alone, inheritors of a world cleansed of its myth.
Scene Transition: From Myth to Reality
I remember sitting there, stunned. Just a kid on a carpet, staring at the old man with wide eyes. My friends were silent too—until our teacher walked back in. She caught the last words of her grandfather's story, and her face drained of color...
"Grandfather! What did you do?!"
She shouted at him for nearly an hour, and I sat frozen, not understanding why she was so angry.
But I would understand later that day.
The Dinner That Changed Everything
Fridays were sacred to me.
Not because of prayer, or rituals, or anything holy.
Because my parents came home.
All week, it was just me and Grandma in the house at the edge of the village. She kept me fed, kept me warm, told me old jokes that barely made sense anymore. But on Fridays... I waited.
I stood by the window as the sun went down, eyes fixed on the road.
And then—
Knock knock knock.
I ran to the door before Grandma could wipe her hands.
"They're here!" I shouted.
She chuckled behind me, her apron dusted with flour. "Of course they are. It's Friday."
I threw open the door.
There they were—my father with his tired smile, my mother with her open arms and city perfume.
"Ousse!" she beamed.
I jumped into her hug. My father ruffled my hair and kissed my forehead. They smelled like taxis and long hours, and I didn't care. They were here.
Inside, Grandma had already set the table—warm tagine steaming in the center, olives in little bowls, bread wrapped in a cloth to keep it soft.
We sat. We laughed. My mother asked if I'd been behaving. My father said, "You're taller." I told them about school and tried not to mention how quiet the house felt without them.
For a while, it was perfect.
Then I looked up at them and said:
"I like having dinner like this… when you're both here."
My mother's smile deepened, touched by it.
I smiled too and asked:
"Mom… where's the Tower of God?"
The whole room paused.
She blinked. Her smile faded.
"The what?" she asked softly. "Why are you asking about that? Who told you?"
"The teacher's grandfather," I said. "He told us the story of how people used to pray at the Tower."
My mother looked pale. My father stared at me in silence.
But I kept smiling. I meant what I said next.
"I just want to go and pray to God so we—"
SLAP.
The word was still leaving my mouth when his hand struck my face.
Everything stopped.
My cheek burned. My head rang. I didn't understand. I looked up at him, shocked.
His face was red, tense.
But my mother...
She looked like the teacher did that day.
Frozen. Ashen. Afraid.
What did I say? What did I do?
And just like that—
Everything changed.
Perfect. Let's keep the momentum going.
The Promise
Grandma took my hand without a word.
Her touch was soft, but her grip was firm—like she didn't want me to slip away.
She led me out of the dining room, past the silence, past the tension still hanging in the air like smoke.
Down the hallway, into my small bedroom.
We sat on the edge of the bed.
For a minute, neither of us spoke.
The only sound was the faint ticking of the kitchen clock.
Then, from the other room—
My parents' voices.
Low at first. Then louder.
Arguing.
"Grandma?" I whispered. "What did I do wrong?"
She didn't answer at first.
She looked tired. Not just old—but tired. Worn.
She turned toward me slowly.
"Who told you about God?"
"The teacher's grandfather," I said. "He told us the story of how the world was made, and the Tower, and—"
"No," she cut in gently. "Those are myths, Ousse."
"But he said it was real. That God gave people powers, and the Tower—"
"Stories," she said again, firmer this time. "Things people used to believe. But not anymore. And not here."
"But why?" I asked. "Why can't I believe it?"
She sighed and leaned in, putting her hand on my cheek—the one my father had just slapped.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Because belief is dangerous. Because people get hurt. And because some things... you're not allowed to say. Not even think."
"But I didn't do anything wrong…"
"No. You didn't," she said. "But that won't stop the world from punishing you like you did."
I stared at her. My throat felt tight.
"Promise me you won't speak of this again."
"But—"
"Promise me, Ousse. Please."
I looked into her eyes.
She was scared. Not for herself. For me.
"I promise," I whispered.
She kissed my forehead, tucked me in, and smiled. A quiet, broken smile.
Then she stood, turned off the lights, and walked out.
I heard her footsteps head toward my parents' room. I heard her whispering. I heard my name.
And I understood one thing:
In this world, believing in God wasn't just forbidden.
It was dangerous.
Even though I promised Grandma I wouldn't speak of God again, my curiosity didn't fade.
I still wanted to know more.
I couldn't ask my family—And no one else either.
The only person who might have answered my questions was the grandfather...
But then, not long after that promise, that night.
I was lying on my bed, just after Grandma left, listening carefully.
I heard my parents talking in low voices.
My father's voice was tight, almost shaking:
"If he talks... if anyone finds out..."
My mother replied, barely above a whisper:
"We have to protect ourselves. For Ousse."
Then, I heard the quiet click of the phone being picked up.
I held my breath.
My father spoke into the receiver, voice low and tense:
"Hello? Yes. I want to report illegal activity.
A believer.
The address is...
Male, probably over 60."
My heart pounded faster.
Minutes later, flashing red and blue lights painted the walls outside.
I crept to the window and peeked through the curtain.
I didn't know who they were, but the men in dark jackets had FPA printed boldly on their backs.
Their black armored vehicles bore the same initials.
Across the street, they moved toward the teacher's house.
They banged on the door, shouted something I couldn't hear, then forced their way in.
The grandfather was pulled out, his hands cuffed, his face bruised.
The teacher stood on the porch, frozen, her tears cutting silent streaks down her cheeks.
An official tried to speak to her, but she couldn't say a word.
She just stood there, crying, as her grandfather was dragged away.
I stayed frozen in my room, staring at the shadows outside.
I didn't understand everything... but I knew something had changed.
And though I was just a boy, I felt it deep inside—like this was somehow my fault.
Had my questions... my curiosity... put him in danger?
The guilt settled heavy on my chest, a weight I couldn't shake.
So that's why I decided not to ask anyone about it again—and instead, I went to the library, searching for answers on my own.
Every day after school, I would go there.
It became my quiet escape.
Rows of books. Dusty shelves. Silence.
I searched through history books, reading anything even slightly related to religion—though it was hard to find.
Many pages were torn, censored, or blacked out.
Some books had entire chapters missing.
But with time and stubbornness, I began to piece it together.
I learned that religion wasn't always forbidden.
There was a time, long ago, when people freely believed and worshiped.
It was part of everyday life.
But around two hundred years ago, that changed.
The world decided that religion only brought war, division, and hatred.
It was labeled a distraction—a virus that kept humanity from focusing on what truly mattered: progress, unity, survival.
So faith was outlawed. Globally.
And that's when the FPA was founded—Faith Prohibition Authorities, a government organization created to monitor, suppress, and eliminate all forms of belief.
Their job was simple: find believers.
Punish them.
And there was only one punishment.
Execution.
They were the same men who came to the house that night.
The ones in black jackets. The vehicles. The initials.
FPA.
Oh God… does that mean—?
I didn't want to finish the thought.
But it finished itself anyway.
After I realized what they did to the grandfather...
After I finally understood what those three letters—FPA—really meant... something inside me broke.
And something else quietly started to grow.
At first, it was guilt.
The kind of guilt that keeps you up at night, curled into a ball under your blanket, staring into nothing.
I kept replaying everything in my head: the questions I asked… the promise I broke… the knock on their door… the way she cried as they took him.
He was gone because of me.
Because I wanted to know who God was.
And that should've scared me into silence forever.
But instead, I started talking to Him.
Not loudly. Not like in the stories.
Just whispers in the dark.
I didn't have real prayers. I barely even knew what a prayer was supposed to sound like.
So I made them up. Quiet, clumsy, messy thoughts that I whispered into the pillow after lights-out.
"Please forgive me."
"I hope he's okay, wherever he is."
"Thank you for letting me know you're real."
I didn't know if anyone was listening.
But it felt like someone was.
I started going to the library every day after school.
Not for fun. Not even for curiosity anymore.
It became a need.
I'd search the history section for anything—fragments, quotes, censored old texts.
Most books had entire chapters torn out. Some were just empty shells with their pages glued together.
But here and there, I'd find a sentence. A date. A footnote.
And through those scraps, I began to understand:
Religion hadn't always been forbidden.
There was a time when people prayed openly, gathered in temples, taught their children about hope and paradise.
But two hundred years ago, the world made a decision.
They said faith was dangerous—that it caused wars, division, discrimination.
That it slowed down humanity's progress.
So they banned it.
And that's when the FPA was created—Faith Prohibition Authorities.
A global task force with one job: erase belief.
Find the believers.
Execute them.
They were the ones who came that night.
The black jackets. The armored vehicles.
FPA.
Oh God… does that mean—?
Yeah. It did.
The grandfather never came back.
That night stayed with me. It still does.
So I stopped asking questions out loud.
I stopped looking for people who believed.
Instead, I started believing alone.
Not publicly. Not carelessly. Just... quietly.
At night, I'd lie on my bed with the covers over my head, whispering made-up prayers.
Sometimes I'd hum melodies I imagined ancient believers might have sung.
Sometimes I just cried and hoped someone—something—was listening.
It wasn't about rules or rituals.
It was about needing something bigger than this world.
Something kinder than the law.
I didn't know what I was becoming.
I only knew one thing:
I believed.
And I would never let anyone know.
And yet… nothing changed.
Even after I started whispering those quiet prayers,
Even after I believed—really believed—that someone might be listening…
Everything around me stayed the same.
No glowing signs in the sky.
No warm voice answering me back.
The grandfather didn't come home.
My parents still acted normal, like none of it ever happened.
My grandma smiled like always, but sometimes I'd catch her staring too long at the wall.
Life just… went on.
I still woke up for school.
Still packed my bag.
Still said the Pledge of Progress every morning with the rest of the class.
I still smiled, nodded, followed the rules like I was supposed to.
But deep down, I wasn't the same anymore.
There was a part of me I kept hidden now.
A small, quiet part that believed in something I wasn't supposed to.
I didn't really know how to pray.
I just talked.
Said things like,
"Thanks for today."
"Please take care of Grandma."
"Please don't let anyone else disappear."
I never said "God" out loud.
Not even when I was alone.
Just in my head—soft and secret, like it was made of glass.
I didn't know if I was doing it right.
I didn't know if He even heard me.
But it made me feel less… alone.
Still, the world didn't change for me.
It didn't get easier.
No one came to tell me I was right or brave or special.
Things went back to normal.
At least, that's how it looked.
**Four or five years later…**
I was fourteen now. Tall enough to reach the kitchen counter without stretching. Old enough to understand that some secrets never go away.
My faith was still mine and mine alone—quiet, hidden, growing beneath the surface. Fridays were still important. The nights I waited for my parents to come home. The dinners we shared—precious moments in a world that often felt cold and empty.
But then, one Friday night… everything changed.
They didn't come home.
Not that night. Not ever again.
They were supposed to arrive by seven.
Grandma was already setting the table before the sun even began to set—folding the napkins, humming an old tune, her hands moving slower than they used to.
I helped, like always.
Fridays were ours.
Even when the world felt wrong, this little piece of life felt right.
Seven came.
Eight passed.
Nine ticked by.
I kept checking the window, even though I told myself not to worry.
Late didn't mean anything.
Late happened all the time.
But something felt different.
By ten, Grandma sat down at the table, her eyes distant.
By eleven, she told me softly to go to bed.
I didn't argue.
I just… obeyed.
I lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, pretending not to hear the phone ring.
Pretending not to hear the way her voice cracked when she answered it.
I woke up early the next morning, like I always did.
I walked past the kitchen and stopped.
She was sitting there.
Same spot as years ago.
Same posture.
Same red eyes.
Same silence.
"Grandma…?"
She didn't speak. She just opened her arms.
I walked into them, and she held me tighter than she had in a long time.
And through her tears, she whispered:
"Ousse… they're gone."
I didn't say anything.
I didn't cry.
Not then.
I just stood there, my arms wrapped around her, staring at the blank wall behind her head.
Gone.
No traffic updates.
No chance to say goodbye.
No why.
A car crash, they said.
That's all.
That's all anyone ever says.
The funeral was held two days later.
Officially, it was called a civil farewell.
That's what they name it when someone dies — no prayers, no holy words, just silence and procedure.
In this world, it's the only kind of goodbye you're allowed to have.
Still, people came.
Neighbors. A few relatives. Some colleagues from the city.
They brought flowers, wore dark colors, said polite things like,
"So sorry for your loss,"
"They were good people,"
"If you need anything, don't hesitate."
There were no priests.
No blessings.
No mention of afterlife, peace, or souls.
Just names.
Dates.
And a speaker from the municipality who read a short file about my parents' lives:
how long they worked, where they lived, what sectors they contributed to.
It was short.
Efficient.
Respectful.
But hollow.
The coffins were lowered into the ground as the wind picked up.
Someone wept softly nearby.
Grandma sat stiff and pale, holding my hand too tightly.
And me?
I just stared.
I wanted to say something.
To believe they were going somewhere—not just into the dirt.
To believe they could still hear me.
But here, even hope had rules.
So I stood there, silent, and whispered the only goodbye I was allowed:
"May you rest... in peace, even if I can't say that out loud."