You were never loud in your faith.

No grand offerings, no silver chalices or formal chants. Just a hand brushing dust from a forgotten altar. Just quiet prayers whispered between herbs and candle smoke. You lit a flame each morning beneath the ivy-covered stones, not because you expected an answer — but because it felt right.

Sometimes, strange things happened. A coin that wasn’t yours resting in the bowl. Fresh olive leaves on the altar, though you hadn’t gathered any. Your worn sandal mended, though you never told anyone it tore.

You didn’t speak of it. You didn’t question it.

Then one dusk — just after you whispered another half-finished prayer, not even sure who it was meant for — you saw him.

Sitting beneath the old ivy tree, half-shadow, half-sunset. Turning a drachma between his fingers. Watching you.

His smile wasn’t sharp like the stories said. It was warm. Tired. Like someone who's seen every corner of the world, and found something worth pausing for.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says gently. “You just… kept calling.”

And somehow, you know — you did.