300,000 BCE – 299,880 BCE | Episodes 1–24

An immeasurable amount of time had passed since this world began nurturing something.

The ground was moving. Splitting, colliding, pushing up mountains, then sinking again. The oceans kept reshaping themselves to fill the gaps.

Above it all, living things walked.

Those with protruding brows lived deep in the northern forests. Short, sturdy ones inhabited the cold highlands. Those with narrow jaws moved across the eastern grasslands. They did not know each other. Under the same sky, they lived in different times.

In one place, a group had settled around a watering hole to sleep. In another, someone was running from a beast. Along the coast, waves kept carving the rock. No one was watching that.

Among them were ones slightly different. Few in number. What made them different, no one yet knew. Like every other species, they could have vanished at any moment.

The one's fingers were trembling. The hand holding the stone could not find strength. For three days, food had refused to pass down the throat. Someone from the group touched the shoulder, but the one shook his head.

On the sand-covered land, the prominent-browed ones had discovered new hunting methods. Rather than chasing beasts, they dug pitfalls in the paths where beasts would pass. The tools for digging earth and the techniques for burying—they had devised these themselves. No one had taught them. Necessity had been their teacher.

The stone in the palm felt heavier than usual. The one remembered the day this stone was first picked up. Back when still young. Back when the back was not yet bent.

In the northern ice-covered lands, a new species of group was making needles from bones. Fish bones, bird bones, beast bones. They knew which bones were suited for needles. They selected bones that were thin and hard. They carved with stone, polished with stone, pierced holes with stone. When the needles were complete, they sewed beast hides. To protect themselves from the cold.

The striking sound had grown fainter. Only weaker sounds could be produced than before. But the one continued striking. Even with quieter sounds, stones still split. Forms could still be made. This had not changed.

Near the rocky shores by the sea, the fourth ones were making tools from shells. They broke shells to create blades and bound them to wood. Tools for cutting fish, tools for peeling tree bark, tools for digging roots. Shell was lighter than stone and sharper than stone. But it was more fragile than stone. It broke easily.

Pain throbbed deep in the belly. Standing had become difficult. But only the hands still moved. Only the hands that struck stone still remembered.

Across this world, different tribes faced the same problems. Cold, hunger, injury, illness. The methods for solving them—each found their own. Fire, tools, medicinal plants, rest. No one had taught them. Living had been their teacher.

The one set down the stone. Tried to stand, but the legs held no strength. A young one from the group rushed over. The one shook his head. But the young one did not leave.

In the distant eastern forests, mixed groups had appeared. The new species and the prominent-browed ones lived in the same places. The children knew no distinction. The adults, too, gradually stopped distinguishing. Blood sometimes mingled. New somethings were sometimes born.

The stone slipped from the hand. The one gazed at the stone. For a long time, there had been togetherness with this stone. The weight of this stone was known. The hardness of this stone was known. The voice of this stone had been heard.

There were nights when three moons appeared in the sky simultaneously. On such nights, across this world, many ones looked up at the same sky. The prominent-browed ones, the new species, the fourth ones, the short sturdy ones. Their words were different. But the moon was the same.

Breathing became shallow. The chest felt heavy. But the one smiled. The reason was unclear. Only there was a feeling that something had been completed. A feeling that something had ended. A feeling that something was beginning.

In that moment, snow began falling in the northern highlands. The first snow. In the western sea, waves carved away at rocks. An endless endeavor. In the eastern forest, nuts were falling. The season was changing. In the southern grassland, wind was blowing. Swaying grass, carrying seeds. This world kept turning. Even when one being drew a final breath, the workings of this world remained unchanged.

The last group of those with protruding foreheads had stopped, blocked by walls of ice. They could go no further. They turned around and retraced their path. They would not return to this land again.

The new species had grown to seventy-five individuals. Winter was approaching. Some gathered nuts, others stripped hides, still others knapped stones. Each was doing something.

Far to the south in warmer lands, short, sturdy beings kindled fires deep in caves. They pressed their hands against the walls, drawing forms of some kind. The shapes of animals. Their world.

The birds faced the season of migration. Countless wings covered the sky. Riding the wind, they headed toward distant places. They knew nothing of earthly boundaries.

The river flooded. Water swept away the dwelling place of one group. Twelve were carried off and died. Those who remained fled to higher ground. They waited for the waters to recede. When they returned, nothing was left.

The seasons changed. This world altered its tilt. The places touched by sunlight shifted. Ice melted and froze again. Countless lives were born and died. Somewhere someone took their first step, somewhere someone drew their last breath.

The sound of striking stone stopped. There was a moment of silence. Then came a new sound. The sound of two stones falling to the ground.

In that same moment, in the northern highlands, a group huddled together in a cave. Outside, snow had begun to fall. It was the first snow. The children had never seen snow before. They could not understand what it meant for something white to fall from the sky.

At the river mouth, another group was catching fish. The water had grown cold. The fish moved sluggishly. They were easier to catch. But their numbers had dwindled.

On the scorching sandy earth, those with protruding foreheads searched for water. They had found none for three days. Their lips were cracked. Their tongues were swollen. But they kept walking. They knew that to stop meant death.

Deep in the forest, short, sturdy ones gathered nuts. This year's harvest was poor. The trees were weakening. Insect holes riddled their trunks. But they did not give up. They climbed higher trees. They ventured to more distant forests.

The sound of the one's stone breaking reached nowhere. But in the moment that sound was born, countless sounds rang out simultaneously across this world. The sound of snow touching the ground. The sound of fish leaping through water. Footsteps. Breathing. Heartbeats.

All sounds overlapped to become the sound of this world.