By IMERPUS RELUR
--
He knelt in a river of ink.
Its waters whispered.
"Confess."
He opened his mouth.
But he didn't know what to say.
His sins had no names.
They were made of gestures.
Of silences.
Of things he should've done.
He placed his hand on the ink.
It turned into light.
> "Only unnamed sins become gods."
"To name them is to unmake their throne."
He wept.
But not out of guilt.
Out of relief.