I remember the weight of the sky that night.

The air had grown heavy, thick with something beyond the dust and fire of the desert. There was a silence, too—an eerie pause in the world that felt unnatural, as though creation itself was holding its breath. Even the laughter and cries of Sodom, normally echoing deep into the night, had faded into unease.

I had lived in Sodom for years. I knew its streets, its markets, its customs—its sins. It was a city full of indulgence and wealth, yes, but also cruelty, perversion, and pride. Still, it was my home. I had raised my daughters there. My wife had grown fond of its comforts.

But then the men came.

They were unlike any I had ever seen. Strangers, cloaked in radiance. Their steps made no sound. Their eyes saw through more than flesh. When they arrived at my door, I felt an ancient fear stir in my chest—something deep and holy. I didn’t fully understand who they were, but I knew they were not ordinary men.

I begged them to come under my roof. Hospitality was our law, yes, but more than that—I needed to protect them from the mob I knew would come. And come it did. A seething crowd pressed against my door that night, demanding I hand the men over to be violated.

I stood in the doorway, trembling, pleading for reason. I even offered my own daughters to spare the guests. That moment still burns in my soul. What father says such a thing? What world drives a man to choose between horror and horror?

Then they struck me down.

But before the mob could break through, the strangers revealed who they truly were—angels, messengers of the Almighty. With a blinding flash, they drove the wicked crowd back and shut the door.

Their words were swift and sharp: “Do you have anyone else here? Sons-in-law, daughters? Bring them out. We are going to destroy this place. The outcry against its people has reached the LORD, and He has sent us to destroy it.”

I staggered, cold with disbelief. Destroy Sodom? All of it? The markets, the homes, the lives? Even the innocent?

But I could not question Heaven. I ran to my sons-in-law, but they laughed in my face. They called me mad, drunk, delusional. And so they stayed.

The angels seized us at dawn—me, my wife, my daughters—and they led us out of the city. I remember my wife’s fingers slipping from mine as she turned to look back, against their command. Her silence was replaced by a crackle, and when I turned, she was no more. Only a pillar of salt remained, eroded by the winds that had begun to howl from the mountains.

Then fire fell.

I will never forget the sound. A roar like the tearing of the sky, like the scream of a world being judged. Flames rained down from above—fire and sulfur, scorching and divine. The cities were swallowed in light and death. The soil melted. The laughter of Sodom was no more.

I wept.

Not just for the city, or even for my wife, but for the world we had allowed to grow so dark. For the people who had forgotten mercy, kindness, reverence. For the part of me that had stayed silent too long.

I now dwell in the hills with my daughters, a broken man carrying a story few will believe. But I remember every second. The warnings. The blindness. The mercy and the wrath.

And I still hear the echo of Abraham’s voice in my mind: “Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?”

Yes, He did.
And He does.

Story and picture generated via ChatGPT and DALLE