Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
She came into my life like quiet light, not loud, not demanding, just steady, just real. A presence that softened the sharp edges in me, a warmth I did not earn, a grace I did not understand. But I was not built for gratitude then. I saw her kindness as something to use, something to take, something that would always remain no matter how I treated it. I never looked at her with honest eyes. Never stood before her with a clean heart. Every word I gave was half-shadow, every promise carried the weight of deceit. I thought I was clever. I thought I was in control. Greed grew in me like a sickness, slow at first, then consuming. I wanted more than I deserved, more than I needed, more than she could give without breaking. And still… she stayed. That was the cruelest part. She stayed while I twisted something sacred into something hollow. She stayed while I turned her presence from blessing into a burden. Until one day, she didn’t. And the silence she left behind was louder than anything I h...