Imagine a young, restless planet—dark oceans of molten rock flickering beneath a sky thick with volcanic haze. The Sun was dimmer then, only about seventy percent as bright as today, yet the Earth glowed from within, its crust still forming and reforming under constant bombardment from leftover debris of the Solar System’s creation.
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Earth at 4.2 Billion Years Ago - wikipedia 
The Moon had already been born from a titanic collision, hanging much closer in the sky, its pull stirring vast tides of magma and vapor. Days were only a few hours long. The air was a dense shroud of steam, carbon dioxide, methane, and sulfur, utterly unbreathable, more like a planetary sauna mixed with the fumes of volcanoes.
Rain did fall—but not as we know it. It hissed to vapor upon contact with the molten surface, carving out the first fleeting basins. Over time, these rains became more frequent as the atmosphere cooled, slowly condensing into the first true oceans. These early seas, likely acidic and murky, were scoured by meteor impacts that boiled them away again and again, before settling back in cycles of destruction and renewal.
Beneath this violent surface, the first stable crusts of granite began to float on the denser basalt below, forming tiny island arcs—the ancestors of continents. In those islands’ shadows, perhaps, chemistry began to play its long game. Simple molecules clashed and combined, stirred by lightning, geothermal heat, and ultraviolet light from the young Sun. The recipe for life was assembling, though no living thing yet stirred.
This was Earth in its infancy—a place of chaos and promise, a world preparing itself for the improbable.
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