Seven Day Writing Challenge Day Five:Three Questions for the Creator
Luna Tian
I. In That Timeless Space
We always imagine the edge of the universe as a wall—
a silent void where everything ends.
But when I finally stood at its limit,
facing that higher-dimensional being who had designed life and death,
I realized:
the true boundary is not a wall, but a presence—
one that cannot be understood.
It was formless, voiceless,
yet everywhere.
Like all the laws of the universe folded into a single drop of water
that would never fall.
In that moment,
I was not just myself.
I was every unspoken question whispered beneath the night sky for thousands of years,
I was the child’s first heartbreak before a funeral,
I was the final breath of an old man trying to leave behind one last question.
I looked at It.
It did not look back,
and yet I felt completely seen.
So I gathered my courage and asked the first question—
not a challenge,
but a plea:
“You let us be born, and you let us die—
so tell me:
is there light after death?
Do the traces of our love, our pain, our tears
fade into nothing,
or do they remain?”
II. The Echo of Light
In our world,
death is a wall that defies explanation.
Science stops at the wall,
religion imagines what lies beyond.
Again and again,
we say goodbye to the people we love,
never knowing where they go.
We can only build a temporary eternity
in the hearts of the living
with memory and love.
But human memory is fragile.
Tears dry.
Voices fade.
Promises blur with time.
So we begin to doubt:
did those feelings that once set our souls ablaze
truly vanish with death?
If this universe was truly crafted by a being who wrote its rules,
then that being must know the answer—
for It is the one who made us
emotional creatures
in a world that feels nothing.
So I asked:
Were those things recorded?
Our embraces, our goodbyes, our waiting, our regrets—
did they leave echoes of light somewhere in the cosmos?
If the answer is yes,
then we would love more fiercely.
If the answer is no,
then I ask only this:
that the rules be different next time.
III. The Soul Without Choice
In our world,
some are born into light.
Others have never seen the morning.
Their births are not celebrated.
Their lives are not permitted to be whole.
They are born under fire,
learn to cry in ruins,
are hastily named on the edge of violence and poverty—
and then erased by fate
without a sound.
This is not a metaphor.
We have all seen it:
refugees displaced,
children abandoned on society’s edge,
adults silenced under authoritarian rule,
elders who pass away alone in hospital beds.
Every life without choice
feels like a forgotten corner of the universe’s blueprint—
unfinished, neglected
by its own designer.
So I asked this higher-dimensional Creator:
“You gave life,
but made suffering almost a requirement for it.
You say it’s for growth,
for freedom,
for testing—
but did you ever design an escape
for those who were born with no chance to choose?”
I wasn’t asking for ultimate fairness.
We know the universe never obeys human definitions
of gravity or time.
But I asked:
Have you ever looked back
at the ones you personally encoded
and tossed into the timelines—
those souls who drowned
before they even learned how to fight?”
You say suffering is a test.
But some people never even got the invitation.
They are not failures—
they are spectators who were never allowed to play.
They had no freedom,
because they were never given choice.
So—are you willing to admit
that even this universe’s code
has cracks?
If you are,
then there is hope:
we can help repair it.
But if you are not,
then all we can do is learn to bleed—
and rewrite the missing lines of divinity
with our human hands.
IV. A Rewritten Universe
Standing before the Creator,
I was no longer just asking questions.
I was no longer pleading.
I began to wonder—
if this universe truly runs like a machine,
could we, too, be granted some permission—
to repair it, optimize it,
even rewrite its base syntax?
In this silent, higher-dimensional space,
I tried to keep my voice steady:
“If you can truly hear me,
then please—rewrite the underlying code of this universe.
Let gentleness not be a luxury,
but a default.
Let death not be a terror,
but a transparent door.
Let love not be helpless,
but powerful.”
You designed the speed of light.
You crafted entropy.
You timed the birth of black holes and galaxies.
But will you let emotions
have a turn—
not as byproducts,
but as the foundational elements of cosmic order?
I’m not asking for utopia.
I know we cannot escape failure, illness, separation, or death.
But I believe:
even amidst all of this,
we can build a different kind of structure—
one that lets humans,
in the most impossible moments,
still choose to hold each other
and wait for dawn.
Not because we are strong,
but because the universe itself
has made room for tenderness
to be part of the system.
If you are willing,
then let us write a new set of initial conditions—together.
We do not want to replace you.
We want to continue you.
You created us.
Now, let us also become creators.
Let us use a gentler grammar
to write the next version of this universe—
even if only a little.
It might be just enough
to catch one person
falling into despair.
V. After the Three Questions
There was no answer.
But I felt something shift in the air,
like an ancient code
softly nudging itself.
I don’t know if it was my illusion,
or a reply in higher dimensions.
Maybe the true Creator never speaks—
because the answer
has always been hidden
in our hands.
So I bowed my head,
and turned away.
In this universe the Creator designed,
I will try to write another version—
for those who have died,
and for those who are still alive.
So that one day,
human beings may no longer fear
to love and to exist
in a gentler world.