His name was Ravindra, and he had never missed a line in thirty-two years.
Senior priest of the Seventh Bell Temple in Shraddhalok. Voice like honey. Spine perfectly bowed. Eyes closed in rehearsed reverence.
His chants fed the god directly. He was a favorite.
Until the morning his voice stopped.
He stood before hundreds.
The sacred text in his hands.
The words on his tongue.
But his breath… refused.
It didn't flow into the chant.
It paused.
It questioned.
And suddenly, the lines he'd known since childhood vanished like mist in heat.
Gasps filled the temple.
A junior priest rushed to his side, whispering mantras in panic.
Ravindra stood still, eyes wide.
He wasn't afraid.
He was… aware.
Of the silence beneath the sound.
Of the absence behind the god's presence.
Of the emptiness in his own soul, hidden beneath years of obedience.
He stepped down from the altar.
Removed his ceremonial shawl.
And walked out—through the temple gates, past the stunned crowd, past the idols, and into the open street.
He found Meha sitting in the square.
She looked up at him, said nothing.
He sat beside her.
They breathed together.
And across Shraddhalok, idols wept gold.
Not in grief.
In withdrawal.