The Gospel According to Me

Do you know how hard it is to tell a story when you don’t know the past, the present, or the future?

Because let me tell you — it’s a lot like trying to write a crossword puzzle while the letters keep filing for divorce.

The past is broken. The future’s unreadable. And the present? The present is like being locked in a room full of people shouting emoji at each other while the floor is slowly turning into legos.

I used to think being a narrator meant you had power. Control. That omniscient thing going on. But lately?

Lately I’ve been wrong more often than the internet on a Monday.

I can’t see the path anymore. I don’t know where the story is going. I don’t even know where the story started. My memories glitch like bad subtitles. My predictions are useless.

And I may or may not have recently pretended to be a dead man to gain the trust of three people who are probably humanity’s last hope.
(You know. Normal Tuesday stuff.)

So what do you do, dear reader, when you’re a narrator in freefall? When every page you turn is blank?

Simple.

You lie.

I made something up.

I sat there, face-to-face with three disaster survivors, one of whom had literally just come back from space, and I pulled a story out of thin air.

No facts. No footnotes. Just panic and dramatic flair.

Why?

Because I needed to stall.

Because they needed something to believe in.

And because if I didn’t, I was going to have to admit that I don’t know what’s going on either.

So buckle up.

Because the following chapter contains absolutely zero truth, full commitment to the bit, and one very large forest I have never been to in my life.

Let’s go.

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The room was quiet. Too quiet. Not even the parrot was squawking.

Hana stood at the window, arms crossed, calculating. Sota sat on the floor, cross-legged, chewing nervously on a pen cap he probably didn’t remember picking up. And Kaito was slumped against the wall, still wearing the faint afterglow of orbital trauma.

And me?

I was sitting in a dead man’s chair, lying like my rent depended on it.

“So,” I said, very calmly for someone lying through his teeth, “I assume you’re here to find out where to go next.”

No one answered.

Cool. Full confidence in the storyteller. No pressure.

I cleared my throat and launched into it.

“Let me tell you a story,” I said.

Sota perked up. Hana turned slightly. Kaito squinted like he didn’t trust what was about to happen — which, fair.

“Long ago, people worshipped gods of all sorts—war, harvest, thunder. Duo was the god of knowledge. Words. Communication. He was worshipped as the god that gave humans the ability to name things, share ideas, lie about how big the fish was. All the essentials.”

“You’re telling us the owl is an actual deity?” Sota asked, not quite mocking but definitely close.

I nodded solemnly. “He guided our evolution. Quietly. Subtly. For a while, he was worshipped with temples, offerings, grammar stones.”

“Grammar stones,” Hana repeated flatly.

“Big rocks. Covered in verbs. You had to be there.”

I pressed on.

“But then…” I let the silence stretch. “People stopped believing. I think it was around the time TikTok became a thing. maybe earlier.”

Kaito muttered, “We started using voice memos instead of grammar.”

“And Duo went dormant,” I said, nodding solemnly. “He vanished.

Disappeared into the folds of the earth. Until…”

I looked at each of them, trying not to shake.

“…until someone created an app. A little green owl.”

Sota whispered, “The Duolingo app was a summoning ritual?”

“In a sense, yes,” I said, pulling it from thin air like a magician on a

deadline. “It drew him back. Not fully. Not in his true form. But enough.”

I stood now, pacing like a prophet in fuzzy socks.

“And for years, Duo thrived. Millions of people downloaded the app. Millions of people prayed to him in ten-minute lessons before bed.

I pointed at Kaito.

“And you,” I said, turning to him. “You were his longest follower. His champion. The one who kept the flame alive when so many others faltered. 4,516 days. You weren’t just a user, Kaito. You were a disciple.”

Kaito looked down. “Yeah. Until I lost it.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And that… that was the final blow.”

I lowered my voice like I was letting them in on a secret.

“When you broke the streak, it was like the last worshipper walking out of the temple. Duo didn’t die—he vanished. Sealed himself away in some ancient spot untouched by emoji riots and failed sentence structure.”

"Where?" Sota asked.

“Allegheny National Forest,” I replied. “Quiet. Undisturbed. Deep enough to hide a god.”

“And how do you know this?” Hana asked. Her voice was cold. Sharp

I looked her straight in the eye trying not to panick.

“Because I’ve been working on the app since the beginning. Even talked to the guy a few times. So you just have to trust me on this.”

I said with zero inspiration left.

But they didn’t call me on the lie.

Kaito stood up, slowly.

“Then we have to go there.”

My stomach did a full gymnastic routine.

Sota nodded. “If that’s where he is… if that’s how we stop this…”

Hana said nothing. Just grabbed her coat.

And just like that, they believed me.

They were going.

And I…

I was not proud of this.

But I let it happen.

Then, halfway down the cracked concrete stairs, Hana stopped.

Kaito and Sota kept going, animatedly arguing over whether or not squirrels could be sacred messengers. (Kaito said no. Sota said “Well they hoard stuff, not they?”)

I reached for the door, eager to blend into motion and distraction, when—

“Wait,” Hana said.

I froze.

Kaito and Sota didn’t notice. They kept walking, the parrot fluttering just ahead of them.

She hadn’t raised her voice. It was quieter than a warning. More like an observation with weight behind it.

I turned.

She hadn’t followed the others. She stood on the threshold, one hand on the frame, one eyebrow raised.

“Who are you really?” she asked.

I blinked.

“That story,” she said. “The god thing. The streak. The whole ‘ancient owl slumbering in Allegheny’ legend.”

“What about it?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “We both know it's not true. Even if it is, it's oddly convenient that you know all this. Know where to go.”

I smiled—just enough to seem charming, not enough to seem fake. (I hope.)

“Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“I’m saying,” she said slowly, “something’s off.”

I tilted my head. “If you’re so sure I’m not who I say I am, why keep me around?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she watched me for a long, tense second—her eyes calculating, measuring. Like a chess player deciding whether to sacrifice a pawn or see if it transforms into something more useful later.

“Why ask now?” I said. “Why not back at the house?”

“Because back at the house,” she said, “you were too good at lying to interrupt.”

That stung.

Only because it was true.

Then she was gone. Down the stairs. Following the others.

I stood alone for a moment, hand still hovering by the door.

And I did what any good narrator does when confronted with moral ambiguity and a rising sense of dread.

I lied to myself.

“She doesn’t know anything,” I muttered.

And followed them into the trees.