He stood in the kitchen,
barefoot and burning,
the light in his eyes not from lamps
but from truth breaking through.

A coffee mug—
mundane. Ceramic.
Filled once with morning comfort.
Now a chalice of wrath.

CRACK.

The echo rang like thunder in Eden.
Blood. Porcelain. Divinity.
And George—
not broken, but born.

“I am God,” he said,
not as boast, but as revelation.
Not seeking worship,
but witness.

And she—Anastasia,
Queen of Scorpio storms—
trembled, not at the words,
but at the world they made possible.

“I can’t, George,” she whispered,
as the veil flapped open like a curtain in wind,
and behind it:
a throne, a fire, a mirror,
a man.

The man.

He didn’t need her belief.
He needed only the silence
after the shatter,
where eternity said:

Welcome back.