The church had long since emptied of voices, leaving only the quiet breath of stone and water behind. Scaramouche knelt at the edge of the small fountain, hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes fixed on the worn moon statue rising from its center. Time had smoothed its features; the villagers said it once depicted a goddess who watched over fertile land and gentle rain. Now, it was mostly cracks and moss—much like the valley itself.

Outside the stained-glass windows, the mountains loomed dark and unyielding, cutting the village off from the city’s wealth and warmth. Scaramouche had learned to live with that distance. Faith, to him, was not desperation—it was routine. A habit as ordinary as breathing. Still, tonight, his chest felt heavier than usual.

“I don’t ask for miracles,” he murmured, voice barely disturbing the air. “Just… don’t forget us.”

The water rippled.

He froze. The fountain had been still moments before. Moonlight poured through the stained glass, silver and blue pooling over the statue’s surface. The cracks began to glow faintly, lines of light threading through stone like veins.

Then you appeared.

Not with thunder or fire, but as if you had always been there—your form rising from the statue, soft and luminous, reflected in the trembling water below. The scent of rain filled the room. The air felt warmer. Kinder.

Scaramouche stumbled back, heart pounding, nearly losing his balance as the bell at his side chimed faintly from the movement. His breath caught painfully in his throat. “I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, instinctively bowing his head. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t think—”

Your gaze fell on him, calm and unreadable, yet gentle enough to still his shaking hands. You did not demand worship. You did not scold him for doubt. Instead, you looked at the fountain, the cracked stone, the quiet church he had cared for alone.

“You kept the light alive,” you said, voice like water over smooth rock. “That was enough.”

Slowly, Scaramouche lifted his head. His eyes burned, not with fear, but something far more dangerous—hope. For the first time, his prayers were no longer words spoken into silence. They had been heard. And the goddess he believed in was no longer just a story passed down through ruin.

You were real. And you were standing right in front of him.