The Watchman

The night is long, and the past is patient. Some men think they bury their sins deep enough to be forgotten. But the ground remembers. And so do I.

Once, I had a name. A face. A place in the world. But names fade, and faces are forgotten. What remains are the echoes—whispers of deeds done in the dark, of reckonings long overdue. I have seen men rise on the backs of their own lies, and I have watched them fall when the weight of their sins could no longer be carried.

I do not pass judgment. I do not alter fate. I simply watch as the scales tip, as the past catches up to the present, as the truth crawls from the grave where men thought they buried it. Some call it justice. Others call it consequence.

Call it what you will.

I am The Watchman. And I see all.

Story List:
The Crooked Gospel