The Weaving Temple was always warm, but not because of fire.
It breathed like an old animal, quiet and slow. Incense hung in the air like sleep. Dust gathered in corners like forgotten prayers. And Sage, as always, was already there before the others arrived, kneeling with a worn cloth in one hand, brushing soot from memory candles with the other.
He didn't need anyone to ask him. They rarely did. The priests would murmur things like, "That boy's a blessing," or "Has he been here all morning?" But when their eyes passed over him, something faltered. A wrinkle in the mind. A ripple in the soul. As if he'd never been there at all.
He'd smile anyway, folding his hands as if in thanks.
Today, he cleaned the offering stones, tracing the engraved names with his fingertips. Some had faded entirely, worn down by time and light and touch. Still, he whispered each as he passed them. The names mattered, even if no one else said them anymore. Names were weighted. Names were persistent.
"Sandra, of the crimson reed," he murmured, wiping down the altar base. "Yalara, of first wheat."There was no echo, no spiritual shimmer that sparkled when these names were spoken. Just dust.
Sage very well knew what this meant, of course. The Temple's last saints were dead from long ago, enough so that the world no longer responded to their names. A saintless church is a dying one, Sage thought.
But he didn't care.
A novice priest entered, surprised to see him. "Oh, have you been assigned here today?"
Sage rose, cloth in hand. "I've been here the past three weeks."
The novice blinked. "…Right. Of course. Thank you."
And left.
Sage sighed, then turned back to the altar. He was used to it. Kindness wasn't the same as memory.
The inner sanctum was quieter still, wrapped in prayer cloth and spirit glass. Here, only trained priests were allowed. But no one noticed when he came in. No one ever stopped him.
He relit a few incense coils and reorganised offerings from a recent grief rite made of soot stones and white-threaded dolls.
And then, he came to the Silent Saint.
It was a statue in the corner. Small, cracked, nameless. Unlike the others, this one bore no sigil, no inscription, no crown. Just a faceless figure, hands outstretched.
Sage always saved it for last.
He took a brush and began clearing ash from its lap. "They don't remember you either, huh?" he said gently.
The statue didn't reply, of course. But the silence between them was less lonely than the silence in town.
"You were supposed to hold something once," he said. "See the indent there? Probably a book. Or a child. Maybe a bowl." He paused. "Maybe you forgot what it was."
He sat back on his heels. The sun filtered in through stained glass and painted colors on the stone's face.
"I'm not like them," Sage whispered. "I know I'm not. But I'm not like you either."
The statue said nothing. But in its silence, there was space enough to speak freely. No one except Sage cared about the decrepit, nameless statue, but he didn't mind cleaning it and repairing it if he had to. It felt like him, nameless and easily forgotten, although that might just be him being pathetic.
He stood, placed a single dried flower at the statue's feet, and bowed his head ceremonially.
As he left, he passed high priest Emon. The man nodded at him with polite warmth.
And kept walking.