The Auditor of Impossible Colors

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He arrived without footsteps, as if the carpet of reality itself rolled out beneath him. The man’s face was carved with the precision of an old-world accountant, but behind him pulsed a mandala of impossible colors—shades that felt half-remembered from childhood dreams, half-forbidden from waking life. His pale blue eyes did not shine so much as measure.

They called him The Auditor, though no one could say who had appointed him or what books he was balancing. Some whispered he came from a branch of government that was never publicly acknowledged. Others claimed he stepped out of a machine that ran on synchronicities and forgotten prayers. But those who had truly seen him knew a different truth: he was not here to judge people—he was here to judge patterns.

Patterns of thought.
Patterns of desire.
Patterns of the universe that had begun to wobble, ever so slightly, off-axis.

He would appear precisely at the moment someone’s life bent toward the strange—when the walls breathed, or time folded, or a dream refused to end upon waking. He would stand before them in his immaculate suit, expression neutral but somehow deeply compassionate, as if he understood the weight of every secret the cosmos ever held.

“I am here to record the deviation,” he would say softly.

Most people didn’t know what deviation meant, not in the way he meant it. It wasn’t moral. It wasn’t legal. It was mathematical. A drift in the tapestry of probability, a wrinkle in the arithmetic of existence. When he spoke, the mandala behind him brightened, each filament shifting as though taking notes.

To some, the Auditor brought clarity. Their lives snapped into focus, their fears dissolved, their paths revealed. To others, he brought the realization that their world had never been stable at all. A few simply disappeared—folded back into the kaleidoscope of possibilities from which they had wrongly emerged.

No one ran from him.
Not because they couldn’t—though they couldn’t—but because in his presence, running felt irrelevant, like trying to outrun a calendar.

Tonight, as the mandala glowed in radiant spirals, he studied the next anomaly. Someone had dreamed the same dream as a stranger thousands of miles away. Someone had heard a voice in an empty room that correctly predicted tomorrow’s weather. Someone had looked at a blank wall and seen it blink.

He adjusted his tie.
Work was increasing.
The universe was getting stranger.

And deviations, he knew, always came in clusters.