He'd been staring at the same ceiling for the previous five years. The same walls, floor, and damn window, hidden in the corner and slightly obscured by the wardrobe in front. Despite the dark curtains he had drawn over the window and walls, the city lights glared in from outside.

For a moment, he had the flat sensation of déjà vu, of lying down like this, looking up, lost in thought just as he was about to fall asleep. The sensation was so frequent that the moment itself seemed to lose significance. It wasn't even creepy, nor did it bother him. It was just a transition, like breathing or Tuesday.

He moved to his side. The MALM nightstand was in his peripheral vision, and the drawer was still open by the same stubborn quarter inch. He could only see the corner of something dark inside... a faint glimpse of the Bible cover, sitting on his dead iPod, as if waiting.

He remembered the elderly woman. The warmth of her fingers lingered even now, even though the touch had only lasted a few seconds before she pulled away. Her eyes had not shown anger, fanaticism, or sympathy. He had told himself it was pity, an emotion he could dismiss. But, in the dark, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure what it had been.

He pondered the phrase "for when the sky changes and reality becomes a distant memory."

He sat upright. He was unsure why. He convinced himself he was just adjusting the pillow. But he was sitting up, reaching for the drawer, opening it despite the misalignment, and holding the Bible again.

Was this one of those moments? Where someone has a sudden urge to call out to God after feeling an unexplainable creeping sensation crawl up their back?

No, he chuckled mockingly; he does not believe in superstitions, whether they are about the Bible, God, or something else. Science, like the Bible, has flaws, so he does not believe everything he reads; it contains some truths, but much of it is fiction, such as the book Lord of the Rings.

Humans are creatures who need something to hold onto for safety and peace of mind. Right now, he was full of curiosity. What is it about this work of literature that persuades billions of people, living and dead, to believe it wholeheartedly?

The Bible in his hands felt much lighter than it did previously. Perhaps his hand was heavier. The leather-like cover was warm as it emerged from the drawer. He turned it over, admiring the gold lettering and noticing the flakes of foil reflecting the dim streetlight outside his window.

He opened it, but this time it did not land on Genesis. His thumb landed on a different section, one with thinner pages and varying print. It opened easily, as if it had been opened numerous times by other hands.

"Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher; vanity of vanities, everything is vanity."

He read it without mocking. The mocking voice had vanished. He read the words flatly, as if they were written on a wall and had just been noticed.

"What profit does a man derive from all his labor under the sun? "One generation passes away, and another comes: but the earth endures forever."

He read about a wise king, wealthy and accomplished, who pursued every pleasure and achievement, concluding that the wind was the wind, rivers ran to the sea, and there was nothing new under the sun. This was the most interesting one he'd read thus far. Whoever came up with this idea deserves to be applauded for their creativity.

"For much wisdom brings much grief, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow."

He kept reading about a man who feasted and found no good, who built, planted, and acquired wealth, depriving himself of nothing and achieving every success, only to see it all as vanity and vexation of spirit, with no profit under the sun.

"Bullshit," he cursed. If he can acquire wealth, he may not display it, but there will be signs. For example, go into a store and buy some yogurt only to lick the lid and discard the rest. Or tell the cashier to "keep the change." If that is vanity, so be it; he'll wear it proudly as a badge of honor and flaunt it.

"The dead, which are already dead, more than the living, which are still alive; yea, better is he than both they, which have not yet existed."

Alex sat still, unsure what to do with the words as he continued to read. They were not making the argument he expected. He expected more Genesis, flat-earth jargon, and dismissible myths. But this was different. Most of it was, as he put it, relatable. Convincible?

He was a man who valued historical teachings and facts over frivolous nonsense that could not be proved. He was sitting in his darkened room, deep in thought, nodding and shaking his head like a wise old sage.

Alexandre imagined himself at the age of thirty-two, in his palace of a small apartment furnished with milk crates, claiming that nothing was enough, which it wasn't. Anyone in his situation would agree, and Naima did.

Achievements had not filled him... yet. Pleasures had not held. Well, sex was good; he also enjoyed beer, eating, and watching sports. Well, a lot of things did; if he had to list them all, it would be too long.

Still, one thing was true that he couldn't completely dismiss: the dead were better off dead, and the never born were better than both. What about those who live like him? So where does that place them?

These words, these thoughts, all sounded like the words of a man with whom Alexandre might disagree or even agree online. Previously, he had declared the Bible meaningless. He realized the word came from this passage, despite having only read Genesis briefly. The word appeared as if it had been waiting for him.

He had no idea "Hebel" was Hebrew or that it was a name. He just knew this passage felt like something he could have written. He read it twice, then three times, before closing the book and gently putting it back in the drawer. It bounced on the misalignment and remained open by a quarter of an inch.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling. He wasn't converted, and he was clear about it. He had read a passage that piqued his interest more than the others. A book with one good column was not necessarily accurate. A man could write about meaninglessness and be incorrect about everything else.

He was simply tired. "Meaningless," he reasoned as the room blurred and his breathing slowed.

"Everything is vapor. "Everything is breath."

He had no idea it was a name, or that it belonged to a boy named Abel, born at the beginning of the world. A boy named Vapor because his mother had no idea what losing him would mean.

He only knew the word felt right in his mouth, which made him slightly creeped out for no apparent reason.

He closes his eyes. The air conditioner hummed, the neighbor's bassline had stopped, and the city was quiet between three and four a.m., the brief period between night and morning.

Alex was just a history teacher, an atheist, and a proud keyboard warrior among many others out there. He sighed into his own pillow, falling into an uneasy sleep. A descent into not-quite-darkness. A surrender to silence that was not completely silent.

He did not have a dream. Or if he did, he'd forget.

The apartment was still. The drawer remained open by a quarter of an inch, as usual. The Bible sat quietly and patiently, with words and scriptures that had outlasted empires and would outlive Alexandre's apartment, neighborhood, city, and even himself.

Outside the window, the sky remained unchanged.

Until it was not.

[End of Prologue]