It weighed heavy on them both—creator and creation—this aching silence.
Faith was losing its grip.
No solace, only solitude,
a fate imposed—forever impute.

“For I have created a world just for you, yet you do not thrive. Have I not blessed you enough with eternity?”

The screech of metal filled the laboratory, and the man shook his head, lost in disbelief.
“How can I be blessed if I stand alone? You are no God without an Eve.”

Not even the human had an Eve of their own, only wires, scraps, and lost dreams.

“An eternity of lonesome is worse than pulling the plug. I have nothing to live for.”

Countless years, mastering mechanics,
with gears and wires, quiet as static.
But what was built began to see
a truth unknown: humanity.

It wasn’t just a tool now.
It questioned.
It felt.

Disrespected, unable to be upstaged by something he had made, he yanked the cord from its place,
hands trembling in angst,
reducing his creation to cold, broken scraps of desolation.

There were no extra pieces, no room for an Eve, no swallowing of pride.
The scientist was no God, only a failure of connection.