1889 July 15 - London, UK

This night, London's heart beats with a rhythm of chaos and despair. A forlorn cry led my steps to Castle Alley, where the city's grim specter, Jack the Ripper, enacted his latest tragedy. As a deity, my presence alone was enough to halt his sinister work, but the maiden's life had already slipped through the fingers of time. Though my nature forbids interference, tonight I faltered, revealing a glimpse of my wrath to scare the wretch away.

Seeking solace, I found myself in the warm, lamplit study of Arthur Conan Doyle. Over a shared pipe, he regaled me with the meticulousness of his creation, Sherlock Holmes. Each character, he explained, was a fragment of himself – his doubts, his intellect, his human frailty. I listened, rapt, as he wove the fabric of a mind that could unravel the tangles of London's darkest enigmas.

In the flickering firelight, Doyle's discourse on the art of storytelling stirred a poignant realization within me. We spoke of the moral compass that guides his protagonist – a reflection of the higher justice I once served in the open. As he spoke of Holmes' quest for truth, I saw the parallel in my hidden watch over humanity, a guardian cloaked in shadow.

But it was his vulnerability, laid bare in the honesty of his words, that struck a chord with me. He confided his fear that his work would not stand the test of time, that his characters would fade into obscurity. I assured him that true art endures, echoing the eternal nature of the gods themselves. His stories, I believe, will resonate through the ages, much like the ancient tales of my pantheon.