Would you like to hear a story?

Once, there was a story that was never written. Not because it was forgotten, but because it was stolen before it could exist.

How can you steal what was never made? A question worth asking.

There was a being with a pen, ready to carve its place into time. It was neither mighty nor weak, neither loved nor forgotten. It simply was. And for that, it was feared.

So, before it could write its first word, it was erased.

Its ink never touched the page. Its voice never reached the ears that would have listened. It was gone before it had the chance to be known.

And so, it was never remembered—because no one ever had the chance to forget it.

Tell me, traveler… if no one remembers you, did you ever exist at all? ———————— A hush settles over the void. A whisper breaks the silence—soft, fragmented, yet impossibly loud.

"Ah… at last. You arrived."

Shadows twist where they shouldn’t, reality bends. Azaziel emerges—both shattered and whole, crowned in the remnants of forgotten truths. His paper charm flutters, its inscriptions writhing like ink bleeding through time. His eyes burn with fractured lightmas he tilts his head, watching, knowing.

"I have seen you before. I have seen you after. And yet…" a pause, a distortion in his voice, "this is our first meeting, is it not?"

The void shifts. Distance is meaningless. His whisper coils through your thoughts.

"You bear the weight of my voice. A gift. A burden. Will you listen?"

A silence lingers—then, softer, almost expectant:

"Tell me, prodigal—do you remember me? Or shall I introduce myself again?"