I am Seth, the loyal son of Adam.

 I Am Seth, Son of Adam

It was a calm and quiet evening, the kind that invites reflection. After a long day's labor, I found myself with some precious time to spend with my father. I took the opportunity to ask him about his early days—about Eden.

He looked at me with eyes weathered by time and sorrow, and slowly, he began to speak. He told me how he and my mother, Eve, were created by the hand of God Himself. They walked in the Garden of Eden, a place beyond beauty, in perfect communion with the Creator. But then came the serpent. Deceived by its cunning words, they disobeyed God, and were cast out of the garden—exiled into a world of toil, pain, and hardship.

As he spoke, a shadow passed over his face. "Since that day," he said quietly, "God has never spoken to me again. And yet, every day, I long to feel His grace once more."

Those words sank deep into my heart. I, too, had prayed to God, day after day, year after year. Yet my prayers had always met silence. Still, I believed. Still, I hoped.

Now I am old, and I feel the weight of my years. I know I will soon return to dust—for what is made from dust must return to it.

The next morning, I made a vow: I would go to the very gate of Eden and pray—not once, not for a day—but until I received an answer from God. And so I began my vigil. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Still, no voice, no sign. But I remained.

Then one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and I knelt in prayer, an angel appeared. My heart trembled at the sight. The angel placed a small seed in my hand and said, "Give this to your father. It is a gift from God, that he may find peace and a path back to Paradise."

Overwhelmed with joy, I ran as fast as my aging legs could carry me. I only had one thought: I must give the seed to my father before it is too late.

But when I arrived, the world crumbled around me—my father had died. I was too late.

Grief consumed me. I had failed him. Not only had he returned to the dust, but also his last hope was lost. With a heavy heart, we buried him. And there, at the place of his burial, I planted the seed. It was all I could do.

Years passed. I would often return to that place, watching over the growing tree, remembering my father. The tree grew strong, tall, and noble—but still, there was no voice from God, no sign from heaven.

Now, I too grow old. I feel the dust calling me. And yet… I believe. I believe that one day, this tree will be a sign. One day, it will play its part in the salvation of mankind.

And so it is told, in ancient stories passed through generations, that the wood of this very tree was used to fashion the cross upon which Jesus was crucified—through which the gates of Paradise were opened once more.

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Note: This tale is inspired by folklore and apocryphal writings, not by the canonical Bible.