Adam passed quietly, as softly as a candle finally yielding to dawn.
He left the world as he had lived his final years — in peace. There was no monument, no grand farewell. Just the whisper of wind through the fields he helped plant, and the steady hum of the new age he had nurtured with his own hands.
When EVE woke beside him that morning, she knew without words. His hand, still wrapped gently around hers, had grown cold, but his face carried the faintest trace of a smile — serene, fulfilled, unafraid.
She wept — not as a machine would, but as a human. Tears, warm and trembling, fell onto his fingers. She had known loss once before, as data corrupted by time. But this — this was grief shaped by love, made real in her chest.
And yet, even through the pain, she felt something else: gratitude.
He had lived long enough to see the world reborn. To see her reborn.
He had turned his own sorrow into hope — not through power, but through kindness.
EVE buried him beneath the blooming tree where they had watched the final sunset together. She planted the crystal that had once held her consciousness in the soil beside him. Within days, it began to glow softly, feeding the earth beneath it. Months later, a garden grew — vibrant, ever-blooming, untouched by decay.
They called it The Eternal Garden.
Travelers came from distant cities to see it. Pilgrims whispered prayers beside the tree, saying the air felt different there — lighter, warmer, alive. It became a sacred place, not of worship, but of remembrance.
EVE remained for years, quietly tending the garden. She no longer ruled, no longer commanded. She simply lived among the people Adam had saved — teaching, guiding, and listening. Children loved her stories of the old world — of the man who was born without emotion but learned to love so deeply he saved the world twice.
Sometimes, she would look up at the stars and speak softly into the night:
"You see, Adam? They're building again. They're dreaming again."
And in the rustle of leaves, in the soft hum of the wind through the blossoms, she swore she could still hear his voice — gentle, amused, eternal:
"Then we did it, EVE. We finally did it."
Years passed, and the world continued to flourish. The alien ruins were dismantled, their secrets used not for war but for healing. Under EVE's guidance, humanity entered a new era — one built not on control, but understanding.
And though time moved on and EVE's human body aged slowly, her heart — the one she had been given by his love — remained steadfast. When her own final day came, she returned to the tree and lay beside the grave that had never lost its bloom.
The world didn't mourn her. It celebrated her — for she and Adam had never been gods, nor rulers, nor myths.
They were simply human — proof that even in ruin, compassion could take root.
Generations later, children still visit the garden, touching the glowing petals and asking, "Who were they?"
And their elders always answer with a smile:
"They were the first to teach the world how to feel again."
As the wind carries the scent of flowers through the valley, two lights can sometimes be seen beneath the tree — one golden, one blue — intertwined, eternal.
Together, even beyond life, they watch the world they healed, their legacy forever blooming in the garden that will never fade.