They had learned to live without truth. Certainty, though, was still offered freely.

It arrived dressed in the familiar: ancient words repackaged, polished, repurposed for a new congregation. No understanding was required. No scrutiny invited. Only belief — and the comfort of knowing exactly where you stood, and who stood beneath you.

They spoke of love, but only for those who looked like them, prayed like them, believed as they did. They preached compassion, but only for those who needed nothing. They held up virtue, but only when it did not cost them power.

And the people repeated these words without question. Repetition became belief. Belief became identity. Identity became a wall.

Doubt was the first thing to go. Then questions. Then the people who asked them.

Those who saw the cracks and said so were not argued with. They were cast out, condemned by the voices that once called them brother.