Glass survives. Unburning, unrusting, unrotting, unwearing; it outlasts paper, steel, wood and stone. It outlasts civilisations. It outlasts our civilisation. And toughened glass…?
When it does finally break, it shatters into thousands of safe little cubes that, thousands of years later, are pulled from the earth by inquisitive minds and painstakingly reassembled into their original forms.
In the ruins of one nameless city they find a monumental cube; on the other side of the world, a cylinder as tall as a half-dozen men in the midst of a vast, amphitheatric space. A sacred space. Beneath these ancient monuments lie strange spaces; spaces with no practical purpose. Unlivable spaces with petrified remnants of long wooden altars.
What gods were worshipped upon them? The spaces are devoid of statuary, frieze or mosaic. Only one clue remains. Stark, simple; a unifying iconography for a world-spanning belief. But which belief? Ancient myths passed down by countless voices abound; Idunn in the wood, Eve in the garden, Eris excluded…
Its simplicity unyeilding, the apple gives no clue; a mystery eternal.
Ten millennia hence, the Cult of Mac is writ textbook literal.