The Abbot raised his hand—and from his sleeve, drew out a single bead. It was round, dark wood polished with age, simple yet impossibly old. Lin Mu sensed a depth in it, like the memory of ten thousand prayers.
"This was once part of my own mala," the Abbot said. "It has no power. It grants no strength. But it will remind you."
He held it out.
Lin Mu accepted it with both hands, bowing his head.
It was a precious gift that no one had received before and it was a great privilege to get one.
The old men in the hall returned to their solemn meditation, having no more words for Lin Mu.
"Let's go, I'll show you around the temple." Monk Hushu said, knowing their time here was over.
As Lin Mu left the grand temple, the prayer bells faded behind him, but their soft tones lingered in Lin Mu's heart like echoes in a still cavern.
