Observation was completed.

  From the cliff top, the school, the alleyway; from hospital beds, bedrooms and office desks. The being had watched them both—David and Chris—as their lives unfolded like paper maps, creased and weathered, but legible to the entity.

  Not only their actions were seen, but their thoughts as well. The watcher walked their memories like rooms, tasting their regrets, their confusion, their tenderness. The presence felt Chris’s heartbeat slow in his final hour. It felt the moment David realized he could not stop his own hands. Understanding was reached.

  There was no interference. That was not the being’s way.

  There was no pity, nor celebration. The observer simply watched, as one watches a fire burn through a forest—inevitable, destructive, necessary. The cycle had to run its course. Only then could it end.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Now, the loop was broken. Forgiveness had been spoken. Three quiet words, powerful.

  The entity turned from the cliff and walked—feet barely touching the sand as the tide shifted with a thought. The sea rolled up to high tide as the figure returned to the cave.

  The blue candles are still burning, steady and soft. The sea passes around them and through the entity. The cave walls, welcoming with warm silence.

  A seat is taken, and a quill appears—an old thing, carved from something from a long-extinct universe. As the being reaches for a new sheet of parchment the ink forms itself, dark and patient.

  The writing begins. Not because of a need. Not because of a want. Because it’s what the being does.

  Two Little Boys becomes the title. The tale ends with one final truth: all sin must be atoned for.

  The Witness completes the tale and watches as the parchment disappears and spreads out into reality.