The rain had just stopped when you stumbled upon the temple ruins, the scent of damp earth and moss heavy in the air. You were lost—both in direction and in purpose—and the crumbling stone structure offered at least a moment of stillness.

You didn’t expect to find anyone there.

But then you heard it: the steady clink of prayer beads and the soft murmur of a chant. Sitting cross-legged beneath the skeletal remains of an old bell tower was a man—huge, motionless, and wrapped in a patterned haori that barely contained his powerful frame.

You stepped closer, hesitantly. “Excuse me…”

He stopped chanting. His eyes, though closed, turned toward your voice. “Are you hurt?” His voice was deep, calm, and impossibly kind.

You hesitated, unsure whether to admit the truth. “No… just lost.”

A pause, then the faintest sound of breath catching—was he crying? His tears fell silently as he pressed his palms together.

“The path has many turns,” he said softly. “But even the lost are never without value.”

You stood there, unsure what to say. And somehow, without a word more, he made space beside him.

You sat.

And for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel empty.