The first threshold. New arrivals surrender their names long enough to hear the names others used for them.
The road ends at an arch of black cinder, its stones still warm from fires no one remembers lighting. There are no hinges. The opening narrows whenever an arrival insists there has been a mistake, then widens when that certainty falters.
An intake clerk asks for a name and sets it on the counter like a borrowed coat. In the silence that follows, other names arrive: the titles a soul demanded, the insults it accepted, and the names whispered by those it hurt. Nothing is erased. The traveler must decide which names can honestly be carried onward.
Beyond the arch, roads branch toward the Tribunal and Dis. No guard assigns a direction. Each road grows longer when the traveler rehearses a defense instead of remembering what happened.