Humanity has always carried questions it could not answer. In the vast sea of mysteries, we are no different from a small fish — unaware of the depths beneath us, unable to comprehend the universe above us.

We cannot expect a creature that has yet to fully understand its own ocean, called Earth, to solve the enigmas of the cosmic ocean.

Among all these questions, perhaps the most profound is:

“How did I come into existence?”

For centuries, humans have tried to answer this using faith, science, superstition, and metaphysics. Some believed in whichever theory they encountered, while others abandoned the search entirely.

With the advancement of modern science, we can now study living organisms — especially the human body — at microscopic levels. Yet even these breakthroughs reveal a deeper, more disconcerting complexity.

Imagine an enormous playroom containing twenty-two different kinds of LEGO pieces. Each piece has countless protrusions, and each is incredibly flexible — capable of forming hundreds of thousands, even millions of shapes.

Now imagine this playroom contains 1,055 pieces in total — and into this room walks a two-and-a-half-year-old toddler.

Even if we allowed hours, years, centuries to pass, the child would never build an intricate city complete with animals, trees, roads, houses, schools, and parks. Not because the components lack complexity — but because the mind combining them lacks knowledge, intention, and skill.

Even adults would struggle to assemble such a structure correctly — knowing which piece folds, connects, or attaches at which point. Alternatively, imagine a storm sweeps through the playroom, and when the winds subside, the LEGO pieces have magically assembled themselves into a miniature city. No rational mind would believe it.

This analogy mirrors the body’s complexity. The human organism contains nearly a million different proteins, and among them, collagen is one of the most abundant. To form just one proper strand of collagen, twenty-two different elements — a set of 1,055 amino acids — must join precisely, at the correct location, with the correct flexibility.

For proteins to multiply, DNA must exist, along with the cell membranes that hold the entire structure together — and a chemical environment capable of keeping these building blocks from disintegrating. The probability that such an event could occur by random chance, according to statisticians, is on the order of trillions multiplied by trillions.

And that miracle must happen not once, but for every one of the nearly one million different proteins in the human body — before a functioning organism can exist.

In other words, to believe life is a product of blind chance is to believe that the storm not only built a city out of toys — but built a new city every second, for millions of years, without a single mistake. It is a story far stranger than any myth — and far more terrifying than any nightmare.

To summarize the analogy:
Just as a miniature city in a fenced play area could only be constructed if the right LEGO pieces were bent, fitted, and joined with the right materials, the building blocks of life are formed only when the correct amino acids are arranged in the correct sequence, bent into the correct shape, and bonded with the correct chemicals inside a protective structure like a cell membrane.

Even if all of this were recreated in a laboratory, we still cannot produce a living cell.

In the end, science cannot yet explain how the very first single-celled organism came into existence. Some believe in coincidence, some in extraterrestrials, but most people accept the existence of a necessary intelligence — a will of knowledge and power — that initiated life.

Scientists sometimes encounter findings so unexpected that they struggle to explain them. For example, nitrogen monoxide (NO) is known as a toxic gas in polluted air — an enemy to human health.

Yet, astonishingly, it was discovered that cells produce this very gas.

How could something harmful, something coded as an enemy in the atmosphere, be produced inside the body? Had treacherous cells infiltrated our defenses, or had the enemy slipped inside?

For a while, this paradox seemed inexplicable. But later studies revealed the truth:

Nitric oxide relaxes blood vessels — preventing them from clogging, allowing circulation to continue. This so-called enemy was, in fact, an invisible hero sacrificing itself for the body.

A similar example is E. coli — a bacterium that lives in the intestines, helping to digest nutrients and produce vitamin K. Inside the gut, it is a friend. But if it escapes into the bloodstream, the immune system declares war on it.

And the immune system is not wrong — the bacterium has crossed into forbidden territory. Yet the error lies elsewhere: sometimes the immune system responds with excessive violence. Determined to leave not a single microbe alive, it damages its own body in the process.

This conflict in the microscopic world mirrors the conflicts of the macroscopic one.

Foreigners who arrive in a country, or groups not counted among its founders, are tolerated when they occupy ordinary roles — but when they rise to positions of importance, they are seen as a threat to national security.

Perhaps the suspicion is not entirely baseless. But what is wrong is when those who control national security react not with measured precautions, but with reckless, inflammatory tactics. In such moments, the "immune system" of a nation attempts to suppress its own "brain" — the institutions of reason and conscience — under the excuse of protection.

Fear-mongering propaganda — “The foreigners will take over our land, erase our religion, drive us out of our own country” —is often nothing more than the calculation of cruel politicians seeking personal gain.

Thus, modern humanity must learn from the micro-universe:
avoid extremes, preserve balance. Otherwise, just as bodies die from immune collapse, civilizations too can grow sick — and perish.

Mark and Teresa had long ago understood the message the universe was whispering — that a civilized life required justice and global peace — and they had dedicated their lives to that pursuit.

But now, they were old. White hair, wrinkled skin, bowed backs — their bodies reminded them that whatever time was left should be spent quietly, hidden away in a peaceful American town.

Even if they wished to leave strange events behind, their reputation did not leave them.The town was blessedly free of bizarre crimes or supernatural disturbances — which pleased almost everyone.

Everyone, except the young sheriff.

The quiet bored him. Every now and then, he would find an excuse to visit Mark and Teresa, listening hungrily to their stories.

In truth, the arrangement served both sides. For the sheriff, the adrenaline-hungry organ hidden above his kidneys — the restless adrenal gland that demanded action — was calmed by tales of danger and mystery.

For Mark and Teresa, like all old wolves, revisiting memories of their exploits and the lives they had improved brought a bittersweet satisfaction.

The sheriff often teased Mark mercilessly:

“So you’re telling me a guy was possessed by a demon? Or he had some weird condition where he tells lies without knowing it — confabulation or whatever? Come on, man. What else?”

Mark never told him about the last case they solved — because it wasn’t safe. He could not reveal the island in Canada, the bizarre illnesses, the human guinea pigs, the secret experiments.

There is a saying among those who have experienced possession, sorcery, or supernatural terror:

“Those who haven’t lived it don’t understand. They don’t believe. They think someone just made up a fantasy.”

Mark and Teresa often thought the same:

“If you knew the things we know, you’d swallow your tongue — laugh less, fear more.”

Teresa was divided. She enjoyed the sheriff’s company — he gave their lonely days a touch of color. Yet she feared that his reckless thirst for excitement could pull them back into unsolved, dangerous mysteries.

Lately, however, she welcomed his visits for a different reason. Mark had gained weight — fast, alarmingly fast — and she hoped the sheriff would drag him out of the house, make him walk around, and maybe help him shed some of it.

In truth, most of the townspeople struggled with obesity. In recent years, the average weight had climbed far above the national norm, attracting the attention of dietitians across the country.

In this retirement town, the food industry and the diet industry functioned like two rival factories — one fattening customers, the other waiting to profit from their desperation.

One fed the wolves; the other sold cages.

Mark and Teresa were just about to leave for an appointment with a dietitian when the young sheriff appeared at their door, eyes wide with excitement.

“If the whole town sinks into the ground soon — don’t be surprised.”

Teresa sighed, weary and skeptical.

“We’re out of stories, and you never believed half of them anyway.”

The sheriff replied, “I didn’t come here for stories. I came to ask for your help. You know the cemetery up north — something strange happened there.”

Mark cut in, “According to you, everything is strange.”

“I’m not the one saying it,” the sheriff continued.
“People in the neighborhood heard a loud noise coming from beneath the ground — something that made their hair stand on end. They say a respected priest was buried there centuries ago. He spent his life trying to keep people away from gambling and adultery.”

“So, what — he came back from the dead last night?” Teresa smirked.

“No,” the sheriff sighed, “but they claim he’s angry about the recent rise in gambling and adultery in town — and that he allowed the gates of hell to open toward us. They think the sound they heard was hell’s fury directed at sinners.”

“And what do you think it is?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know,” the sheriff admitted, pressing his lips forward.
“I mean, I can’t believe hell is literally under this town. People also said they saw smoke rising from the ground. But let’s be honest — in big cities, corruption, deceit, organized prostitution, and total indifference wash over society like a flood. Why would God ignore all that and punish this town for a few petty sins?”

Teresa and Mark exchanged a knowing smile. Mark, burdened by his growing weight, let his body sink into the grass and gestured to Teresa: Your turn.

“First,” Teresa began, “we must remember something: most of what we call myth or superstition originates in divine revelation and prophetic sayings. Over time, beliefs get distorted — sometimes out of ignorance, sometimes for personal gain — and people end up with a completely different version of the truth.”

“The enemies of religion use that distortion as ammunition,” she continued,
“claiming that divine teachings are irrational or absurd, and urging people to abandon any belief in a creator.”

The legendary scientist paused, then raised a finger.

“And second…”

“Yes, just as God sometimes punishes collectively through hurricanes, earthquakes, or plagues, He may also punish an individual—through illness, accidents, or the absence of the love and compassion they expect from their family.

But we cannot claim that every misfortune is God’s punishment. We cannot know such things, nor can we accuse a person of wrongdoing and judge them as if we were God. That would contradict the very essence of monotheism.

At best, we can acknowledge the possibility, advise the person to seek forgiveness from God, and to make amends with those they may have wronged.

Third,” she continued, “there is a saying: Great crimes are tried in great courts; small crimes in small ones.”

“Yes, people in this town have made mistakes,” Teresa said.
“But they go to their places of worship with sincere hearts, and they serve no other master but the One Creator. And even those who fall into serious sins like adultery or gambling do so out of weakness, not because they consider such acts legitimate. So compared to the corruption in big cities, their sins are a drop in the ocean.

For that reason, God may remind them of the afterlife through calamities or supernatural incidents—but not in a way as overt as what you described. If people literally heard the sounds of hell, everyone would believe immediately, and free will would collapse. The test would be void.”

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

“Still, divine texts do speak of hell growing angry at the sins of mankind—so if people claim they heard hell’s voice, perhaps they are simply under the influence of those revelations.”

The sheriff frowned.
“You don’t look like a religious person, but judging by your knowledge and reasonable explanations, maybe you are.”

Teresa laughed under her breath.

“What, should I blast my faith through a loudspeaker like some populist politician?”
She waved her hand dismissively.
“Anyway—you dragged me into this, so fine. Let’s go investigate.”

They arrived at the cemetery.
Teresa stopped directly over the spot rumored to sit atop the gates of hell.

She sniffed the air and grimaced.
“This smells like… flatulence, doesn’t it?”

The sheriff immediately raised his hands in defense.
“Yes—but I swear it wasn’t me.”

Teresa ignored him, slipping into a clinical seriousness.

A local approached them, pointing to a shallow pit.

“That’s where I saw the smoke coming from.”

Teresa and the sheriff saw that the grass in the spot they were shown had turned black, as if scorched. The soil beneath had sunken as well. The retired scientist examined it closely and noticed that the subsidence stretched like a line, some sections collapsing deeply, others only slightly.

She followed the trail of the collapsed earth as it continued out of the cemetery. When she lifted her head, she saw the line leading all the way up to the cabin on the hill.

“The most common cause of ground collapse is the depletion of underground water. It usually forms a circular or elliptical shape—we call it a sinkhole. You see it mostly in underdeveloped countries that drain groundwater recklessly and lack proper irrigation systems.”

“So, you’re saying this collapse has nothing to do with groundwater. Then what caused it?”
The sheriff smirked.
“What is it then—demons clawing their way up from hell? Is the apocalypse starting right here?”

“If it were an earthquake, only this side of town wouldn’t be affected. People on my side would’ve felt it too. And there’s no fault line passing through this town.”

“Alright, we’re on the same page. I know that much.”

Teresa pointed toward the cabin at the end of the collapse line.

“Maybe the answer to this riddle is in that cabin. Who lives there?”

“Two brothers,” the sheriff replied.
“Lazy ones. Known for gambling and drinking—but they’re harmless.”

“Harmless to those we know about,” Teresa said coldly.
“Alcohol and gambling always hurt someone. How about we drop by for a cup of coffee?”

They climbed the hill and stood before the cabin door. After Teresa’s warnings, the sheriff rested a hand on his gun and knocked. When no answer came, he forced the door open.

The cabin was empty.

“Hello?” Teresa called out.
“Is anyone here?”

“They’ve probably gone to Vegas to gamble,” the sheriff muttered.

Teresa lifted a finger to her lips, silencing him instantly.
She whispered:

“I think I heard… a groan.”

“Is anyone down there?” the sheriff shouted again.

“You’re right,” Teresa murmured. “There’s definitely a faint voice… but we’ve checked everywhere. This cabin is tiny.”

The groans grew louder.
They met each other’s eyes and pointed to the same spot:

“The floor.”

Pulling back the rug, they found a hatch.
The sheriff drew his gun and nodded at Teresa, signaling he was ready.

He lifted the hatch and peered into the cellar.
There was nothing but darkness—
until a sound rose out of it, no longer a groan, but a pleading voice:

“Help me…”

Teresa, thinking bitterly of their old days of digging through nightmares, pulled a flashlight from her pocket and shined it downward.

A man lay on the ground, his foot soaked in blood. The heavy stench of burnt flesh hit them immediately—it was coming from him.

“That’s Gary,” the sheriff said.
“One of the two brothers.”

Seeing the steep wooden ladder descending from the floor to the cellar, and the charred ruin of Gary’s legs, Teresa understood why he couldn’t climb out. But how it happened— that was the terrifying question. Once they confirmed no one else was hiding below, they descended cautiously.

The cellar was concrete-lined, but one wall had been blasted open. The sheriff remembered seeing Gary a month earlier, hauling loads of dirt with his truck. He had joked, “What, digging for gold now?”

He never imagined there might be a connection between that strange noise from the graveyard and the soil Gary had been transporting.

Gary’s explanation at the time had sounded harmless:

“The soil in our yard is useless. We’re dumping it somewhere else and bringing in fresh earth.”

Teresa pointed to the yawning hole in the wall.

“This is where the tunnel begins. We can safely assume the horrifying sound the townsfolk heard came from whatever is down there. And judging from the burns on his feet—there was an explosion inside this tunnel. Gary must have dragged himself out, injured and alone.”

“But why would anyone use explosives in a tunnel?” the sheriff asked.
“If they were smart enough to dig it, they’d know a blast could collapse everything. And what were they trying to accomplish by tunneling toward the graves?”

He paused, then added in a low, uneasy voice,
“Unless their purpose was to trigger a rumble underground, make a frightening noise, and scare the hell out of people. Maybe they wanted the rumor to spread that the priest’s grave was roaring back at sinners, you know—manipulate the town.”

“Separate your fantasies from the facts,” Teresa said dryly.
“You’re the one who told me they were gamblers and womanizers. Why would men like that want people to remember a priest’s sermons on morality? And you said there was a brother. Where is he?”

While talking, Teresa worked quickly, trying to keep the man’s wounds from getting infected.
After drinking some water, the injured man groaned and said,

“My brother died in the blast. I threw myself down here at the last second.”

“What blast? You two don’t even have criminal records. You can smuggle a gun, sure, but bombs aren’t exactly easy to get. Even if you tried, state police and the FBI would shut that trade down in a heartbeat.”

“We didn’t buy a bomb,” the man whispered.
“I don’t know what caused it. The only thing I remember is my brother saying over the radio that he’d broken into the priest’s grave. Then I saw a ball of fire rushing at me. I dove inside and survived.”

“The price you pay for desecrating a holy body,” the sheriff muttered ominously.
“God protects the remains of His saints.”

Teresa raised an eyebrow, almost laughing.

“Sheriff, for God’s sake—did you inhale some metaphysical gas I didn’t? What nonsense are you spouting? In a blast like that, the priest’s ‘holy body’ would have been reduced to ash.”

She leaned back, exasperated.

“If you want to play detective, use a scientific hypothesis, not a sermon. And remember—God protects the sincere, not charlatans, not manipulators. Yes, He guards His prophets, priests, imams, rabbis—but where it matters most: in the afterlife, not in a collapsed basement under a bar.”

“They could have tried to convince the townspeople this place was cursed — force them to leave, then buy up the land cheap,” the sheriff suggested.

“I think the motive is obvious,” Teresa said. “They went there for money.”

But the sheriff shook his head.

“No. If the priest buried here was truly devout — and he was — then he preached that wealth and gold mean nothing after death. Only devotion to God and service to others lead a person to paradise. A man like that would never have treasure hidden in his grave.”

“I didn’t say treasure,” Teresa replied. “Could’ve been a small amount of gold, that’s all—”

She didn’t finish. The injured man scowled through the pain.

“I’m dying down here, and you’re arguing philosophy?”

Teresa raised her hands slightly, conceding.

“What were you looking for, then?”

“Our plan was to take the gold teeth from the dead,” the man said bluntly.
“We started with the priest because his grave was closest. We weren’t trying to scare anyone, or push religion, or any of that crap. I still don’t know what caused the blast. Neither of us used explosives. Hell, the only bombs I’ve ever seen were in movies.”

The sheriff looked at Teresa — because she had gone very still, nodding to herself, smiling faintly.

Then she spoke, in the tone of someone who enjoys unraveling puzzles.

“Let me explain the most critical part.”

She raised a finger, lecturing while crouched over a bleeding man in a dirt-soaked basement.

“What you call a fart is medically called flatus. In the East, a person who releases flatus is seen as rude; in the West, people judge the one who burps. Cultural hypocrisy aside, something interesting happened in 1978. A group of researchers in France were studying gut bacteria when they experienced a mild explosion. They didn’t understand it at the time — but later medical advances explained similar bodily explosions.”

“I know dead people’s stomachs swell with gas,” the sheriff said. “Flatus, like you called it.”

“Right, anyone who’s ever seen a corpse knows they bloat,” Teresa said. “But what most people don’t know is what’s inside that gas. Studies show that depending on what a person eats, how fast they digest, their gut capacity—variables like that—about one out of every three people produces methane. And hydrogen sulfide as well.”

“That’s the same gas used in explosives, right? Like methane explosions in mines?” the sheriff asked.

“Exactly. Our intestines are filled with combustible gases. Under the right conditions, if someone lit a lighter near a particularly potent release, it could explode. But under normal circumstances, the volume is small and quickly diluted by fresh air, so nothing happens.”

She turned her gaze toward the broken wall of the crypt, lowering her voice.

“But underground—sealed away—those gases can accumulate. My guess is Gary’s brother cracked open the priest’s burial chamber with his pickaxe, letting oxygen rush in. Then, blinded by darkness, he probably struck a lighter to see where he was digging. And the trapped methane ignited.”

The sheriff blinked.
“I’ve never heard of human graves blowing up.”

“People know graves smell foul, but they don’t appreciate the chemistry involved. Gary and his brother made three fatal mistakes: no gas masks, no ventilation, and they used flame instead of a flashlight.”

She paused, wiping the dirt and blood from the injured man’s leg.

“It’s also a scientific fact that the decomposition of human bodies generates enormous energy. I once read a paper by German researchers proposing to harness that energy from cemeteries to heat cities.”

“So you’re saying we don’t need oil and gas from the Middle East,” the sheriff muttered. “We just need dead people.”

“If I, as a Frenchwoman, said that, the government would call me a spy and stir the town against me. Better it comes from the mouth of a righteous local.”

The sheriff groaned, rubbing his forehead.

“How does a simple grave robbery turn into a lecture on geopolitics and idealism? I’ll never understand you.”

Then he glanced at Gary, pale and trembling.

“Come on. Let’s get him to a hospital before he dies down here.”

Teresa remembered she still needed to take Mark to the dietitian, so she left the crime scene in a hurry. When she got home, she found him doing exactly what she feared—eating again, casually, happily, carelessly.

She didn’t even try to hide her frustration.

“Do you have any idea how much damage your appetite inflicts on our household economy?” she snapped. “Actually, let me put it this way: bodies like yours add about a hundred and fifty billion dollars of extra burden to the national economy. And now you’ll get offended and ask, ‘Am I worth less than money?’ Of course not—your value isn’t measured in dollars. But you shouldn’t underestimate the impact you have on the world.”

“What impact, sweetheart? What paper have you been reading this time?” Mark replied with a tired grin.

“No scientific paper needed,” Teresa said, launching into her explanation.

“In every election, presidential candidates promise higher wages and better living standards. Meanwhile, the current administration is busy scheming ways to inject money into the economy without collapsing it. And the easiest ways?” She ticked them off with cold fingers.
“Control the natural resources of the Middle East. Sell weapons. And maybe—just maybe—extort money from international drug cartels through ‘legal’ channels.”

She paced.
“And when money drains from Middle Eastern countries, people turn on each other. Justice collapses. Factions rise. Poverty breeds violence, then civil wars, then millions of refugees.

So yes—our unnecessary consumption, our addiction to comfort, even without malice, contributes to someone becoming a refugee somewhere else on this planet. Any idealist worth the name should recognize that.”

Mark said nothing this time. Silence hung between them like guilt.

Teresa, softening only a fraction, reminded him they would get the lab results tomorrow—tests to see if his condition was linked to hormonal imbalance.

Then she went to bed.But the thought followed her through the dark hallway like a whisper she couldn’t silence:

“Obesity can pave the road to cancer.”

A sentence more chilling than any ghost story—because this one was true.