He found her in the cold between the stars, raging against the emptiness. For a long time she did not notice him. Her fury roared too loudly; the storm of her being drowned out all else. He did not flee. He did not scold. He simply sat near her—patient as stone, quiet as breath—and waited.

She tested him.

She raged at him, screaming accusations into the void. He sat and listened. She tore apart drifting stone and ignited dead stars just to see if he would flinch. He only watched with quiet interest. She ignored him for what might have been years, turning away, pretending he wasn’t there. He remained.

Little by little, the edges of her fury dulled in his presence. Not gone—never gone—but no longer the only thing she was.

One day, when the silence between them had grown almost comfortable, she opened her mouth—to say something bitter, something defensive, something to push him away— Then he grinned. Wide and goofy and completely unexpected, holding up a cookie like it was the most important thing in the universe. “Cookie? They’re delish!” She stared at him. This god. This being who had sat through her rage for months. Who spoke of loneliness and compassion. Was offering her a cookie. With a grin that belonged on a child, not a deity. She didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to process this sudden shift from profound to… whatever this was.

“…What?”

“Cookie!” he said again, waggling it slightly. “I made them myself. Well, ‘made’ is a strong word. I willed them into existence, technically. But the intent was the same!” The grin never faltered. She continued to stare. “You’re…” she started, then stopped. “What are you doing?” “Having tea,” he said simply, as if it were obvious. “And offering you cookies. Because they’re good. And you look like you could use something good.” He tilted his head, the grin softening into something gentler but no less genuine. “So. Cookie?”

She looked at the cookie. At him. At the cookie again. Cautiously, she took it. And for the first time since her creation, something sweet touched her tongue. It was warm. Sweet. Nothing like the bitterness she had tasted since her creation. She ate it in silence. His grin softened into a smile—pleased, but not smug. Then he poured her tea. She did not trust him. How could she? Trust was a concept she had never learned, never been given reason to understand. So she tested him. She raged at him, screaming accusations into the void. He sat and listened. She tried to drive him away with displays of her power, tearing apart asteroids, igniting dead stars. He watched with quiet interest. She ignored him for what might have been years, turning her back, pretending he wasn’t there. He remained anyway. And slowly, so slowly she barely noticed it happening, something changed.

One day—if days existed there—she found herself sitting beside him instead of across from him. “Why didn’t you pour your flaws into me?” she asked quietly. “The others did. Why not you?” He was silent for a long moment. “Because they are not flaws,” he said finally. “Rage is not a flaw. It is passion without direction. Envy is not a flaw. It is desire without understanding. Cruelty is not a flaw. It is strength without compassion.” He turned to look at her. “The others feared these parts of themselves, so they called them flaws and cast them away. But I understand: balance requires all things. Light and shadow. Creation and destruction. Love and rage.” She laughed—bitter and sharp. “But I’m Wrath,” she said angrily. “I am nothing but flaws. That’s all I am. That’s what they made me.” He was quiet for a moment, then smiled gently.

“Is that so?” He paused, then added quietly, “I am Solcha—the god of Balance. That is my name, though I rarely use it. I like Balance instead.” She stared at him. “You’re… Solcha?” He looked up, blinking as if surprised. “Did I not mention that?” He waved his hand dismissively, that goofy grin spreading across his face. “Oh, I thought I’d told you ages ago. How silly of me.” He took a sip of tea, completely unbothered. “Though really, names aren’t all that important, are they? Do mortals build temples to Balance? Do they cry my name in prayer?” He shook his head, still grinning. “No. They don’t even know I exist. And yet here we are—I’ve been here. You’ve been here. We’ve had tea. Does it matter what anyone calls me?”

He set down his cup, his expression growing more thoughtful. “What matters isn’t the name, child. It’s what we do. The choices we make. The actions we take. Those define who we are—not what we’re called.” He smiled again, softer this time. “You could call me Solcha, or you could call me ‘that annoying god with the cookies.’ Either way, I’m still the one sitting here with you. Still the one who chose to stay.” She muttered under her breath, “Or god of cookies… what would that name even be?”

His goofy grin widened. “Crumbius,” he said without hesitation. “God of Cookies, First of His Name, Baker of Joy, Keeper of the Sacred Snickerdoodle.”

Despite everything—the philosophy, the revelation, the weight of ages—she almost laughed. “You’re ridiculous.” “Yes,” he agreed cheerfully. “But I’m also right.” “Then why do they hate me?” “Because you remind them of what they tried to deny. You are the truth they cannot face.” She was quiet for a long time. “Is that all I am?” she finally asked. “A reminder? A mirror of their shame?” Balance reached out—slowly, giving her time to pull away—and rested his hand on her shoulder. “No,” he said gently. “You are whoever you choose to be. What they made you carry does not define you. It is simply what you were given. What you do with it—that is yours alone.”

Time passed. Not the fleeting time of mortals, but the deep time of gods—ages folding into ages. He taught her inner balance. Not how to control her rage—that would come later, or not at all—but how to understand it. He taught her that the most powerful forces are often unseen. “Look at me,” he said one day, gesturing to himself. “I have no temples, no worshippers, and yet I hold the universe together. I am the force that keeps light from consuming shadow, shadow from drowning light. I am everywhere and nowhere. The background against which all other things are measured.” He smiled. “The universe doesn’t need to know your name to feel your presence. The most powerful gods are the ones no one sees coming.” She thought about that. “You’re teaching me to hide.” “No,” he corrected gently. “I’m teaching you that being unseen is not the same as being powerless. Sometimes the quietest voice carries the furthest.”

She began to change. Not in what she was—the rage still burned, the fury still coiled—but in how she saw herself. He never told her she was wrong. Never tried to fix her. Never treated her like something broken. He simply… stayed. Day after day. Age after age. Patient and present. And slowly, she learned what it meant to not be alone. One day, she realized she had stopped raging quite so often. Not because the anger was gone—it would never be gone—but because she had someone who sat with her through it. Someone who didn’t flinch when she screamed. Someone who didn’t leave when she burned. Someone who saw past the fury to whatever lay beneath.

“Why do you stay?” she asked him. Balance looked at her with something warm in his eyes. “Because you matter,” he said simply. “And because…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Because I think of you as family now. If you’ll have me.” She stared at him, stunned. Family. The word felt foreign. Impossible. And yet… and yet it also felt like something she had been searching for without knowing it. “I don’t know how to be family,” she admitted quietly. Balance smiled—gentle and patient, the way he had always been. “Neither do I,” he said, grinning. “But perhaps we can learn together.” She pulled him close then—awkward and uncertain, not quite an embrace but something close—and for the first time since her creation, she allowed herself to cry. Not tears of rage. Not tears of pain. Tears of relief. Because she was not alone anymore. “I will stay with you,” he promised, wrapping his arms around her and holding her steady. “For as long as you want me here.”

And in that moment, she believed him. In that moment, she understood what family meant. Not blood. Not creation. But choice. He chose her. And slowly, carefully, she was choosing him back.