Where was I

Haunting questions gather, slow and heavy, threads of shadow twining ruin in their grasp: why did He permit it? Why them, and not others? A finger rises, silent, merciless, piercing the sky’s veins, a cry turned to stone, accusing the eternal. Yet I do not lay on God the weight of every wound, nor shatter silence with the clamor of doubt. Instead, I remain, a vigilant dust, and within me, a thought stirs, trembling: where was I, a scattered fragment, when He sketched the abyss and the light? When the first breath stirred the void and the Word unfolded on the wind?