The Last Sin Eater: Rewriting the Divine Program

The path curved where there should've been a straight line.

Imer didn't walk. He drifted—half-real, pulled by something he couldn't name. The place had no sky, no floor, only layers of mist stacked like folded thoughts.

Figures stood in the haze. Not ghosts. Not gods. Just... witnesses.

They had no eyes, but they saw.

They had no mouths, but they spoke.

Their voices didn't echo. They synchronized.

"You came late," one said.

"You arrived before the beginning," said another.

Imer didn't ask who they were. He somehow already knew.

They were the ones who remembered nothing—because they had given everything.

And now, they were here to remind him.

Of what?

Of the shape of truth that could never be spoken.

The shape that had to be lived.