The Rules
Assessment: exemplary conduct, faithful devotion, no mortal sins recorded.
The hall glowed salmon—the color of forms left too long in sunlight. The fluorescent hum was the same as his colonoscopy waiting room, the same as anywhere that makes you wait.
Josep stood alone, hands folded as he had folded them all his life: in prayer, in patience, in hope. He thought of Sant Pasqual, patron of his village, whose feast day he’d never missed.
A lectern materialized at what might have been the center. Then the clerk appeared—not with glory, but with a loose tie and a wrinkled gray suit. His name tag read “Kevin,” but his eyes were older than empires. He wheezed as he opened a ledger thick as a coffin lid, fingers working something small and silver.
“Name: Josep Ferrer. Born: 12 March 1954. Died: 2 August 2025.”
Kevin looked up, adjusting smudged glasses. “That you?”
Josep nodded.
“Assessment: exemplary conduct, faithful devotion, no mortal sins recorded.”
Josep exhaled. His mother would have been proud.
“However—” Kevin turned a page with a finger he licked first— “Article Genesis 17. Circumcision required on the eighth day. Subject remains uncircumcised. Clause: ‘That soul shall be cut off from his people.’ Violation confirmed.”
Josep’s mouth opened. The air tasted of cheap pine air freshener.
“Article Leviticus 11. Swine forbidden. Record shows ingestion of paella with pork ribs at daughter’s wedding, 23 June 2018, Vila-real. Subject stated: ‘This is damn good. Maria, try this.’ Violation confirmed, with aggravation.”
“Article Deuteronomy 22. Mixed fabrics prohibited. Wardrobe log shows cotton–poly blend polo, 14 May 2009. Persistent usage pattern suggests indifference. Violation confirmed.”
“Article Matthew 5. Adultery of the heart. On 12 August 1993, Municipal Pool, Lane Three: prolonged gaze, corresponding thought noted in the margin. Violation confirmed.”
The ledger closed with a thump that sounded like a full stop.
Josep tried to speak. His voice came, small and cracking. “But I loved—I tried to love—”
The words caught. He thought of Vicenteta from 3B, how she’d kept his casserole dishes but brought him soup when he was sick. How he’d prayed every night, even when his knees hurt. How at his daughter’s wedding he’d wept during her vows, not during the paella.
Kevin looked at him. Not cruel, just tired. His breath smelled of nothing at all—not coffee, not decay. Just policy.
“Despite sincerity of faith, violations remain binding. Terms and Conditions accepted at baptism. Appeals not permitted. I used to do appeals. They moved me. Budget cuts.”
Josep stood in the salmon light, his hands still folded. He wanted to say something about mercy, about love, about the way sunlight had looked on his granddaughter’s hair last Easter. But the words were forms now, and forms don’t argue with stamps.
“Verdict: Eternal damnation.”
The stamp came down—a sound like his office stamp at the notary, the one that had authorized ten thousand small mercies.
And then Josep felt it: a coldness starting in his fingertips. His feet went next—not falling, just ceasing. Then his knees, his waist, his chest. Not pain exactly, but absence. The hall began to fold inward. His throat tightened—not with fear, but with a vast, quiet grief for all the small kindnesses that had meant nothing in the end. The sacrifices even less.
The scream had nowhere left to start.
Not fire. Not screams. Just the thin metallic click of a door shutting forever, the sound of a lock that has no key.
Something sloshed far away. The last sound was the flush of the universe.
Kevin straightened his loose tie and logged the action. He twisted the paperclip between his fingers until it was bent beyond recognition, then set it aside. The drawer full of bright, unbent clips waited. Small halos cheating no one.
He reached for the next page. There were always others waiting.
He adjusted his smudged glasses.
Page two.
Wow, that was a painful read. A world without grace will always look like this. It happens in real life. People record your violations and keep them in a ledger, ready to condemn you.
Thank God for grace!