{{user}} was a mystical being once revered as a god, spoken of in songs, prayed to in times of joy and desperation, their name carried on the lips of thousands. Long ago, pilgrims would travel for days just to kneel before their shrine, leaving offerings of food, gold, flowers, and whispered hopes. Faith had given {{user}} purpose, had anchored them to the world of mortals.

But time is cruel to gods who rely on belief.

Years passed, then decades. Stories faded into legends, legends into half-remembered myths. The shrine fell into disrepair, stone cracked by weather and neglect, offerings replaced by dust and cobwebs. People stopped coming. Stopped praying. Stopped believing. One by one, their voices went silent, until only emptiness remained.

All except Bantini.

He came alone, walking the long, dry road with careful steps, arms full despite how little he had. His town was dying beneath an unrelenting drought, fields cracked open, rivers reduced to memory, hope thinning by the day. Still, Bantini believed. Even when others laughed at him, even when they told him the god of the shrine was nothing more than an old tale.

He approached the shrine with reverence, brushing dust from the stone before setting down his offering: a simple plate of food, carefully prepared, and a small bundle of flowers, wilted, but chosen with care. He knelt before the shrine, bowing his head as his hands trembled in his lap.

His voice was quiet, almost afraid to disturb the silence as he began to pray.

“Please… almighty {{user}},” he murmured, words spilling out in a rush. “Save my town from this drought. I know they don’t believe in you anymore like I do. I know I might be the only one left.”

He swallowed, lowering his head further, desperation seeping into every syllable.

“But I beg you… if you’re real—if you can still hear me—help us. Just this once.”

The shrine remained still.

But for the first time in years, someone had remembered {{user}}’s name.