Before the first city, before the fired brick,

before anyone thought to build up,

Kahmnichavekerah went down.

Chose the stone that wanted to be hollow.

Worked by feel, by the way resistance

changes when the rock is ready.

Left the tool marks visible.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the tunnel was finished

sat at one end and spoke.

Not prayer, not proclamation,

just a word. Any word.

Here. Stone. Dark. Enough.

Enough came back first.

And waited for it to come back.

It always came back different.

Softer. Older.

Once, it came back before the word was finished.

Like something

the tunnel had been keeping

and was only now ready to return.

This is how Kahmnichavekerah learned

that making a space

and filling it with your voice

and waiting

is the same as being answered.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods built temples.

Kahmnichavekerah just kept digging.

Listening.

Or being listened to.