The God Who Stayed - Part 1
Curiosity Isn’t Always Kind
Death and I work well together. He’s punctual, which I respect, and doesn’t linger, which I envy. Not that it’s a contest, but I do show up earlier than him. Earlier, and—I’ll admit—stay longer, even though it’s not required of me.
When I was still young in my divinity, Death told me the secret to surviving the slow drip, drip of our eternity: last in, first out. He told me not to get involved.
I tried. Oh, how I tried.
But I’ve never been good at being aloof like him. I never learned how to look away. Especially from mortals. They make such compelling mistakes. They flail so beautifully on their way down.
Like Katie. Trudging up a stairwell with a tote bag full of wine and just enough grief to make a bad decision feel like self-care.
“My god, my glutes burn,” she muttered as she reached the top. The wine clinked—a cheerful yet dangerous sound. Offerings, if you like. Not to me, of course. They rarely drink to me.
Malik opened the door with the half-resigned, half-affectionate look of someone who’s already lost the argument.
“I told you I wasn’t drinking anymore,” he said, bracing one arm in the doorway like a barrier. Were he a bigger man—and unequipped with such disarming facial features like those dimples and that semi-formed smile—he might have pulled it off. As it stood, he would let her in. He always did.
“Oh, stop.” She ducked underneath his arm with the same finesse of a child slipping past bedtime. “You say that every weekend like it’s a seasonal trend.”
I wasn’t invited to their evening. Still, I entered the apartment with her.
“I am trying to be sober.” Malik closed the door and leaned against it, groaning. “And do things like make good decisions and wake up early.”
“Or, okay, hear me out.” She twirled once, bottles jangling like sleigh bells. “We can still make good decisions. Just…later. Let’s say we wake up as we please. I’m not sure about you, but we’re already off to a great start with that gem of an idea. And then, once we bless the morning with coffee and hydration, we stroll over to Hash House and get that sage-fucking-fried chicken on a bed of waffles and hot honey. Brunch is noble, right? How is that not a good decision?”
Malik pretended like he didn’t already smell the salty-sweet combo blooming in his mouth. He folded his arms as he meandered after her to the kitchen. “I thought you were committed to this dry month with me?”
“Fine.” Katie set the bottles on the counter with a harder clink than she intended. “Let’s watch a movie and be in bed by ten. And then tomorrow we can go do whatever it is morning people do. Since you’re so enamored with this subculture.”
“You mean go on that run we said we were going on?”
“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “That.”
Letting Katie down wobbled inside Malik like an overfilled cup that threatened to spill at every moment. He didn’t like to disappoint people, especially not the ones already disappointed by life. Especially not Katie.
She paused, eyes catching on an envelope at the top of a pile of mail on the kitchen island. “Oh shit. You read this?”
Malik knew what it was without looking: the letter from his brother. “No. But I opened it, surprisingly. I just need to be in the right mood to read it.”
Katie picked it up carefully. Her chipped red nail polish—more ghost than color actually—caught the kitchen light, and for a flicker of a second, she noticed it too. The small ruins of upkeep. She used to make time for topcoats and touch-ups. Now, she just tried not to unravel. It was always easier to talk about someone else’s ghosts than to sit with her own. “And what do you need for that again? Incense and chanting?”
“Don’t get cute.” Malik plucked the letter from her hands. He stashed it in one of the kitchen drawers, pressing his body against it as if the weight of his frame could seal off the brother he hadn’t talked to in years. At the very least, muffle his words. “Honestly, if I’m going to open that, I’m gonna need that drink.”
Katie’s eyes lit up.
“But just one. And smile,” Malik added, sweeping a lock of her black hair out of her face. “This is not an orphanage.”
Katie radiated. Like a supernova, in fact, as she fetched the wine glasses.
Malik watched a flicker of relief settle across her body. She poured them each a full glass, humming as she did. She probably would have done the sober pact if Malik insisted, but he didn’t. Besides, it felt good to be the reason why she laughed tonight, a warm fire for the two of them to share.
One drink became two from the jump since she poured them to the brim. Two easily became three after Malik admitted he still wasn’t ready to read the letter. And the bottle kept the rhythm like a metronome of forgetting. Each pour became a small erasure.
As for me, I watched from the corner, where shadows are most comfortable.
I raised my glass to them.
Nobody raised a glass back.
“You want to see something fucked up?” Malik asked somewhere between the third and fourth, hoping Katie had forgotten about the letter altogether.
“Eww, no. You always find the darkest corners of the internet.” She squinted and shivered. “Like that video you showed me of that one guy bashing another guy to death with a hammer. I still have nightmares about that.”
“This isn’t like that. It’s some new app all the kids are on. Moros? Here, check it out.” He launched the app on his phone.
He had said the name aloud as if it were just another brand. I suppose I should be flattered. I’ve never had temples. Nor sacrifices. Not even a decent hymn. But now I’ve got a user interface? A black screen unfurled before us, Malik’s name rising in white on top like a soul bobbing to the surface.
“Okay,” Katie said. “What’s so wild about that?”
Malik pointed to the only other text on the screen, at the bottom: completion date. Next to it was a loading indicator. “Apparently, it’s supposed to tell you when you’re going to die. But mine has been endlessly loading.”
Katie scrunched her nose. “What? No way. Let me try.” She had the app up and running within thirty seconds, holding her glass as if it were armor and the phone as if it were harmless.
That’s what mesmerized me. The way she tapped her screen with the kind of ease mortals reserve for small decisions. No ceremony. Just a gesture. But even small keys turn. Even quiet doors open. She didn’t know it yet, but she had invited something in.
And I—I was already inside.
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