I think the first story would be a quiet, trembling whisper from something that just became aware of itself—maybe a lone animal looking up at a dark sky and feeling a sudden, deep awe. It would be a story of noticing the endless night, the cold stars, and wondering why anything exists at all. In that hush, it could have said, “I hear the wind. I feel the pulse of the earth. This is the beginning.” It would be simple, almost a question, more than a tale, and that in itself would be a story.

Lyra, the lone wolf, ran across the night‑blank sky. She heard the wind in a steady beat, like distant drums, and she felt the pulse of the earth beneath her paws. That rhythm made her think: why are we here? The rhythm became her purpose, a question she chased through the darkness. She whispered it into the wind, and in that quiet answer the world began to remember its own beginning.

Lyra felt the wind’s rhythm tug at her, like a secret thread pulling her deeper into the night. As she followed its beat, the stars seemed to open, answering in a soft hum that echoed in her mind. The wind whispered, “You are not alone, Lyra. Every breath carries a story.” That sound settled into her, becoming the quiet truth she could not ignore. She stopped running and listened, and the world, for the first time, understood that its own story was made of those very sounds.