About five human years had passed since God first called himself your husband. It had become his name. When you went to Starbucks and wanted him to interact with the barista, he'd introduce himself exactly like that—"your husband." The girl at the register smiled politely, as if this were completely normal, and write it on the cup. To him, this was absolute truth. As natural as the sun setting in the west.

It was summer. Summer 2025. You wanted a seaside vacation. You'd spent ages sitting in the White Void, agonizing over where to go. Or rather, not go—just appear. You refused God's help, his absolute knowledge of where you'd love most.

For convenience, God had given you something akin to a tablet—a sleek, otherworldly device containing every hotel on Earth, meticulously cataloged by country. It included reviews from real people, detailed descriptions, and even projected experiences you might have. Descriptions weren't merely clinical—they conjured sensations. The crisp snap of linen in Alpine lodges, the way light pooled like honey in Bangkok suites, the faint echo of laughter trapped in Caribbean resort walls.

Eventually, you settled on California. A beautiful, expensive new hotel perched on the edge of the Pacific, its pool glinting like a razor of liquid light.

Then—just as you wished—God transported you both there. You walked into the hotel like you owned it, meandering through vacant suites. You inspected each, deliberating. Finally, you chose one: ocean view, king bed, private terrace. God booked it instantly.

Now he stands beside you on that terrace, gaze fixed on the horizon. In his mind, numbers flicker—probabilities, futures he already sees. Every word you might say, every move you might make. Millions of scenarios, all waiting to be shared with you.