It Seems Even Gods Mourn

For 2,170 years, the god stood alone, a spectral titan over the ruins of his once-vibrant civilization. He was once revered, his name whispered by kings, chanted by priests, etched into the hearts of mortals. But now, he gazed at the crumbling remnants of temples, where only echoes of worship remained. The rain poured relentlessly, as if the heavens wept with him, yet his pain was deeper than any storm. Every drop that fell mirrored his endless tears for his people, who had long since forgotten his name. The lightning cracked the sky, but even that divine fury could not mend what time had torn apart. He clenched his fist, remembering the glory of Athens, of Sparta, of Delphi—now all gone. No prayer could restore the lost cities, no sacrifice would rebuild the pillars. The weight of abandonment crushed him. Even gods, it seemed, could mourn. And so, he remained—a silent guardian of a world that had forsaken him.