Imagine a long corridor, infinite in both directions. On either side of this corridor are doors. On the left: the even numbers. On the right: the odd numbers. Each number is a room, and each number is a person. They whisper among themselves, bicker about their reason for being. The even numbers wear gray cloaks, symmetrically cut. The odd numbers, on the other hand, are wild, uncombed, their voices uneven and their steps jarring. Now the corridor is filled with light: the light of infinity. This is no ordinary infinity, but an infinity with taste. An infinity that judges, that distinguishes between order and chaos. And here the first sign reveals itself: every odd number can be transformed into an even number, simply by subtracting 1. 7 becomes 6, 5 becomes 4. But not every even number can be transformed so elegantly into an odd number, because 0, the absolute even, has no odd predecessor. It is the origin, the first silence, the mother of parity. 0 counts, say the wise, and with that the even numbers have a head start of one. But we are not here for childish arithmetic games. We are looking for a deeper proof, a proof in which logic submits to imagination.