“What is a God, if not the first child to cry loud enough?”

Nobody knows what that means. Not anymore.

Not in a world where names are forgotten before they’re spoken.

Where prayers echo off the bone-white remains of fallen creators.

They call this place the Threshold. But no one remembers what it was before the screaming.

Here, the Creators don’t build—they fracture. They break what the frail cling to:

Time. Memory. Divinity. Hope.

Worship is currency. Belief is a blade.

And somewhere between what was once called Heaven…and what now lies beneath it—

Something is waking up.

And it will do anything to stay as God.

Note!: I’ll be posting this story on Royal Road! https://www.royalroad.com/profile/655490/fictions