The day had ended like most others — crowded streets, brief smiles, a phone battery dying faster than usual. Yet, for some reason, tonight felt different.
As the man stepped onto the balcony of his apartment, the city noises had softened into a distant hum. The breeze was cooler. The sky — strangely clear. For the first time in weeks, he looked up.
There they were — the stars.
A tapestry of light stitched across the endless black. Not one or two — but countless. Some twinkled like secrets. Some burned like silent witnesses. And in that moment, as the cool wind brushed past his skin, he felt something… stir.
He leaned on the cold iron railing. And for the first time in his adult life, he was not thinking of deadlines, rent, or even dinner.
He was thinking of… everything.
"Who put them there?"
"Why do they not crash into each other?"
"Why are they so beautiful — for no one in particular?"
"Why am I... here?"
He looked at his hands. They moved. He felt hunger, warmth, pain, joy. He could love. He could laugh. He could cry. He had memories, desires, fears. He could heal and be broken — and heal again.
"Who gave me all this?"
"Who designed me… and the sky above me?"
In that stillness, a strange fear gripped his heart. Not fear of danger — but of not knowing. Of walking through life with his head down while the heavens waited to be seen.
"If there is a God… who is He?"
He had heard names. Many names. But none had truly reached his soul. His parents spoke of culture. Society spoke of science. But now his heart was asking a different question.
A quiet question.
A real question.
That night, sleep refused to come. The man turned to the books on his shelf. Philosophy. Psychology. Spirituality. He needed answers — not theories. He needed truth.
The next morning, he visited an old man known in his town as "The Thinker." A quiet philosopher, rarely seen speaking — but always listening. Always watching.
Sitting beneath a fig tree outside a humble cottage, the man poured his questions into the wind.
"I see stars that don't need to exist. A brain I don't know how to design. I feel love. I feel guilt.
And yet… I don't know who to thank.
Tell me, old man — how many gods are there? And who is the One I must know before I die?"
The philosopher opened his eyes. Smiled. And said nothing at first.
Instead, he pointed to a bird perched on a branch.
"That bird doesn't know the formula for flight… yet it flies.
The tree doesn't know your name… yet it gives you shade.
Do you not see it? The One who made all this… did not forget to make you wonder."
He leaned forward.
"You are close. Closer than you think.
But to find God, you must be willing to ask not just with your mouth — but with your mind… and your heart."
The man sat quietly. The wind rustled the fig leaves above him as if the world itself was listening in.
The philosopher poured water into two cups and handed one to him.
"You asked, 'How many gods are there?'"
He smiled faintly.
"But that question already holds a clue. Would you ask how many suns rise in your sky?"
The man furrowed his brow. "No… there's only one."
"Exactly," said the old man. "And the One who made that sun… did not create a rival to Himself."
The man nodded slowly.
"Then why," he asked, "are there so many religions? So many gods? So much confusion?"
The philosopher looked out toward the horizon. The sky was starting to warm with the soft light of morning.
"Because," he said softly, "truth is simple. But people… are not.""Men began carving gods from stone, and from their own desires. But the sky never changed. The sun never multiplied. The earth never asked for more than one Creator."
He reached for a small rock and held it in his hand.
"This stone did not create itself. Neither did you. Neither did I. And something created all this — the sky, the cells in your body, the beating of your heart when no one tells it to beat."
The man stared into the philosopher's weathered face.
"But why would God hide? Why wouldn't He just show Himself?"
"Ah," the old man chuckled, "but He has. Every day. Through everything."
He pointed upward.
"Every atom obeys laws you didn't write. Gravity never fails. A tree never forgets how to grow. The sun never rises late. Look around — there is design, order, balance, intention."
"Would a thousand gods agree on that? Or would they fight over whose law to follow?"
The man leaned back. His mind spun.
"So you're saying… there is only One?"
"More than that," said the philosopher. "I'm saying there can only be One."
He paused.
"A designer must be beyond what is designed. Eternal, all-knowing, powerful enough to make time and space. That One… cannot have a father, mother, or rival. He was never born, and He never dies."
The man's breath caught. He had heard these words before. Somewhere. A verse. A fragment.
"He begets not, nor is He begotten…"
He whispered aloud.
"...And there is none like unto Him."
The philosopher's eyes glimmered.
"You have heard it. Somewhere your heart remembers. That is not man's voice. That is revelation."