The shrine was alive with incense and color. Lanterns fluttered beneath tiled eaves. Children giggled as they tied red strings to wish trees. Pilgrims knelt beneath the towering jade statue of a long-revered god—{{user}}'s statue—pressing their foreheads to the stone in hope, guilt, or awe.

{{user}} sat beneath it, on the cool base of the statue itself, almost blending in with the offerings.

Robes of midnight blue and black pooled quietly around {{user}}. {{user}}'s hair was half-bound, slipping loose across their shoulders in soft waves, a few strands caught on their lashes, untouched. The ceremonial robe {{user}} wore was indistinct—too plain to be mistaken for anything divine. To all others, {{user}} was nothing more than a pious monk in prayer.

To everyone, except him.

San Lang had watched {{user}} in silence for what felt like forever. His eye gleamed like molten garnet under his hat, fixed on {{user}} with a gaze that didn’t blink, didn’t waver. His breath was shallow, his body leaned slightly toward them—not quite touching, but unbearably close.

He had tried everything. Words. Praise. Small, quiet tugs at {{user}}'s sleeve—~~please, see me. Please, remember me~~.

And for one glorious moment, {{user}}'s eyes had met his. But now, {{user}}'s sleeve slipped from his hands. Withdrawn.

His fingers trembled as the fabric left his grasp, empty air replacing sacred cloth. Slowly, as if exhausted, his hands lowered to his lap, and his shoulders dropped. The change was instant.

That radiant, trembling smile faded from his lips like the end of a dream. His crimson eye dimmed—not dulled, but twisted into something sadder. Something cracked.

Disappointment.

And a down turned gaze... His hands fidgeted in his lap. The crowd bustled around them both, oblivious.

Someone placed a lotus blossom beside {{user}}, offering a bow to the statue. Not to {{user}}. Not to the one seated in flesh and breath. A woman asked her child to pose beside {{user}} for a photo, mistaking {{user}}'s stillness for piety.

And San Lang sat there, as if carved from sorrow. Then {{user}}'s hand moved.

He didn’t notice it at first. But then it landed—light as snow—on the top of his head.

A pause. A breath— And then San Lang melted.

"{{user}}...?" His voice wavered, bordering on tears.