The village healed in the way old wounds do—leaving behind faint aches that only surface in the cold. New houses stood on the old foundations, gardens burst with stubborn herbs, children raced through the meadows unaware that the fields they trampled were once soaked in ash.
The stories faded.
The sower’s name was no longer spoken. His temple became a ruin of stones, half-swallowed by earth and vine, hunched beneath a sagging tree.
Most believed it empty.
But those who passed it—even briefly—felt something shift in their chests. A sudden grief, like remembering a friend just after waking from a dream. They would grow quiet without knowing why. Some left in silence, fingers brushing the altar without thought. Children, untouched by fear, brought bundles of meadow blossoms—white, pink, clumsily tied in strings.
The god remained.
He had no followers. No prayers. No voice.
He sat within his temple of stone and root and shadow, watching the distant road where carts rattled and boots trampled fallen leaves.
The world had changed.
The gods of bounty had grown fat with offerings. The gods of war had gilded statues. Cities sprawled where forests once stood. And still the rains came and went without reason. The harvests failed or thrived by whim. Homes burned. People cried.
And this god, old and unseen, wept without water.
He had come to understand the cruelty of the world—not in its disasters, but in its indifference. In the way even the most useful gods could not stop it.
He remembered the man who built him a home from stones and silence. Who prayed without expectation. Who stayed.
And so he painted sunsets with yellow leaves.
He invited worms to dance beneath the orchard soil.
He dressed the forest’s edge in wildflowers and fruit.
He etched cold into the wind to whisper of winter’s coming.
He dappled apples with red, crisp freckles, soft enough to break beneath gentle teeth.
A dozen other nothings.
Each one a memory.
Each one a prayer for a man long gone.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World.”
The god turned—or perhaps *felt*—and there, at the edge of the cairn, stood a familiar shape.
A smile in a sun-creased face. A presence made of wheat and warmth and worn hands.
Arepo.
The god’s voice cracked through the silence like the first breeze after frost.
“Arepo,” he whispered. “Is it truly you?”
His voice was hoarse from disuse, dry from centuries of silence.
Arepo stepped closer, the same as he had in life—steady, patient, unshaken by time.
“I am the god of devotion,” he said softly. “Of small kindnesses. Of unbreakable bonds.”
“I am the god of selfless, unconditional love. Of everlasting friendships. Of trust.”
The god bowed his head, trembling. “That’s wonderful,” he said, voice catching. “You’ll be needed, then. Surely there’s a grand temple somewhere waiting for you. A city full of worshippers.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Then farther still? The capital? You’ll do good there. Thank you, Arepo, for visiting me before your journey.”
“No,” he said again, with a small chuckle. “I will not go there, either.”
The god blinked. “Farther? You aim higher, then. Ambitious. You’ll be beloved across nations.”
“Actually,” Arepo interrupted, kneeling by the altar, fingers brushing its edge, “I’d like to stay here. If you’ll have me.”
The god stared at him, stunned into silence.
“…Why?”
“Because I am the god of unbreakable bonds,” Arepo said. “And you—”
He smiled, warm as spring.
“—you are the god of Arepo.”
The temple never grew. It did not gain new walls, or marble pillars, or a golden dome.
But the wildflowers bloomed longer each year.
And the apples grew sweeter.
And in the hush between seasons, when the leaves began to fall, if you listened closely, you could hear them speaking:
One voice old as the earth. One voice full of love.
And between them, not prayers— but the kind of silence you share with someone you trust.
And so the temple stood, unchanged and unnoticed, save by those with hearts quiet enough to hear it.
No thunder. No miracles. Just leaves in the wind. Just apples on the tree.
Just two small gods, keeping company with the world.
