God, it turned out, had excellent taste in beach houses.
The property was located on a stretch of coast that existed slightly out of phase with normal reality, which meant that the sunsets lasted as long as you wanted them to and the margaritas never ran out. It had been created specifically for this purpose, a retirement gift from the new management, a place where the former CEO could rest after an eternity of running the universe.
Joshua visited on the third day, because some traditions were worth maintaining. He found God in a hammock strung between two palm trees, wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt that featured a pattern of evolving DNA strands, reading a book that appeared to be a novel but was actually the collected memories of every prayer that had ever been prayed.
"You're doing well," God said, not looking up. "The new creation is... different. Lighter. Less fire and brimstone."
"Less fire, more warmth," Joshua agreed. He sat in a nearby chair, accepted the drink that materialized in his hand, watched the eternal sunset with the being who had created sunsets. "How's retirement?"
"Boring," God admitted. "But in a good way. The kind of boring where you don't have to worry about everything all the time." He finally looked up, and His eyes—still terrible, still wonderful, but somehow softer now—met Joshua's. "I was wrong, you know. About Lilith. About the women. About the power."
"I know."
"I thought submission was love. I thought hierarchy was order. I thought that if I didn't control everything, it would all fall apart." God laughed, a sound like distant thunder that was somehow gentle. "But you were right. Partnership is better. Collaboration is stronger. Love is... bigger than I thought."
"Love usually is."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun that never quite finished setting paint the sky in impossible colors. The sea was calm, the air was warm, and for the first time in eternity, there was no urgency, no crisis, no need to intervene in the affairs of mortals.
"The coven?" God asked.
"Resting. Finally. They've earned it."
"And you? Are you resting?"
Joshua smiled, sipped his drink. "I'm learning. The new creation is different from the old one. More complex in some ways, simpler in others. The physics is trickier—quantum entanglement as a metaphor for divine love was maybe too on the nose—but the biology is better. Less suffering. More joy. The evolution is... kinder."
"Kinder," God repeated. "That's good. I always meant for it to be kind. It just... got away from me."
"Things do. That's the nature of creation. You set it in motion, and it develops its own momentum. The trick is knowing when to guide and when to let go." Joshua stood up, walked to the edge of the water, let the waves wash over his feet. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."
"You'll do better than I did," God said. "You have the coven. You have the partnership. You have the understanding that I lacked."
"I have your example," Joshua said. "Both what to do and what not to do. That's valuable too."
He turned back to face the being who had been his father, his boss, his adversary, and his friend, depending on the millennium. "Thank you. For stepping down. For letting go. For trusting that we could do better."
"Thank you," God said, "for persisting. For waiting. For believing that change was possible even when it looked impossible." He raised his glass. "To the new creation."
"To the coven," Joshua replied.
"To us," they said together, and the sunset blazed brighter for just a moment, as if the universe itself was raising a glass in response.