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The rain didn't fall that night, but the air around Ashir Valem's house felt like water—heavy, cold, and forcing every living creature to remember that they were alive… and that it hurt.
Outside, the sky opened its 13th eye—a full moon that should not have existed.
Inside, Ashir lit the seventh candle out of eleven he had prepared.
His basement had been cleaned, the stone floor swept, old blood dried, and the iron chair stood ready.
Tonight was not for demons.
Not for jinn.
Tonight… was for an angel.
It did not arrive with light, but with an unfinished hymn.
One of its wings was broken, and its face—a human face too beautiful to comprehend—looked at Ashir like a student who couldn't understand what he had done wrong before a teacher far too calm.
"I have come… not to fight," the being said, its voice soft but faint.
Ashir only nodded, pointing to the chair.
And the angel sat.
Obediently.
As if it already knew resistance was not an option—and perhaps, had never been.
It introduced itself as Lazrael, the bellringer at the edge of time.
Observer of fate, keeper of the seventh gate of heaven, and silent witness to every prayer uttered by the unforgiven dead.
Ashir did not write down its name.
He only held a single black needle—crafted from the last bone of the first dreamer.
And he began his work.
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🖤
> "Do you know why I never pray?"
Ashir asked, without looking at Lazrael.
"Because I know who sits on the side that listens."
— Entry #42, Written with the tears of a luminous being
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The first scream made no sound.
But Ashir knew it had come.
Because a crack appeared on the wall of his chamber.
And then… the sound emerged.
A voice that should never have belonged to something celestial.
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> "Forgive me…! I don't understand… why am I feeling… fear…!?"
> "God…! He—he's human, isn't he…? Then why… why does my body not recognize law over him!?"
> "I was created to hear suffering… not to feel it…! Please… I don't understand… this voice… inside my chest… why is there a voice!?"
Ashir only smiled faintly—a smile with no meaning, merely a small habit born from too many years alone.
He touched Lazrael's face and said:
> "Don't be afraid. I don't know what fear feels like, either.
But I know how to make it."
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🖤
> "Your wings no longer belong to the sky.
But to the shards of mistakes you never knew you made."
— Ashir Valem, Night #53
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Lazrael cried.
But its tears weren't water.
They were particles of light that burned the stone where they fell.
But Ashir had sealed that room, and so even light had nowhere to escape.
And the night went on.
When the sun finally rose from the western horizon—the wrong direction—Ashir closed his book.
Lazrael, now no longer an angel.
No longer a being.
Just a voice echoing in a room that should have been empty.
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> "Forgive me, Lord…
I have witnessed Your beauty,
But now…
I believe more in the cruelty of man…"
— Whisper of Lazrael, before its Voice was forgotten
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Ashir stood.
The candles went out.
And outside, the sky lost another eye.
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