Temples are built for gods.  

Not always fine ones, of course—some are no more than stones stacked with care, or circles of scorched earth in secret places. But the principle holds: wherever someone waits, watches, or wonders, the gods may come.  

Arepo was not a particularly holy man. He did not attend the city’s grand temple festivals, nor did he light the customary incense at the foot of his hearth. His prayers were brief and infrequent—simple hopes murmured to the morning air: *let the rain come this week*, *keep the frost off the grapes*, *help my sons keep their fingers*.  

But Arepo was a sower, and sowers are always half-believers. They place their faith into the ground and wait to see what might answer.  

So it happened one spring that Arepo built a temple.  

It was not much to look at. Just a ring of old stones hauled from the edges of his field, stacked into a cairn no higher than his knees. He wedged a flat one across the top to make a crude altar and cleared the weeds from around it with a few well-placed kicks.  

He didn’t say a prayer right away. He stood there for a while in the fading sun, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. Then he sighed, fetched a pair of stalks from the wheatfield, and laid them gently on the stone. He set them alight with a flint spark and watched as they smoldered to ash.  

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” he said. “Or even just a rain god with some spare time.”  

He tugged off his straw hat, held it in his hands. “I know it’s not much,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “But I thought... maybe someone like you might show up. And if not—well, the stones’ll keep me company.”  

The next morning Arepo returned to the field, this time with two figs plucked from the tree behind their house. They were small, greenish things—not quite ripe, but sweet enough. He placed them carefully on the altar and stood a while in silence before leaving.  

On the third day, he came just after sunrise. The sky was streaked with the soft purples of a passing raincloud. He sat cross-legged on the earth, stretching his back with a grunt, and muttered a quiet prayer.  

He didn’t know who he was praying to. But maybe that was alright.

From then on, Arepo made it a habit.  

Each morning, before heading to the fields, he’d stop by the temple. Sometimes he brought an offering—a cracked egg, a wildflower, a coin of no value. Sometimes he sat. Sometimes he just stood there and looked at the clouds.  

He always left something—if not in his hands, then in his time.  

And in the evenings, he returned home with the same quiet steadiness. He’d help his eldest son mend the fence without needing to be asked. He'd slice fruit for his wife’s tea while she wasn’t looking. He’d kneel to listen to his younger boy’s stories, nodding patiently, even when the boy’s words tangled in wonder and nonsense.  

He prayed the same way he parented. With presence. 

The god, when it spoke, did so rarely and without ceremony. It did not preach. It asked no favors. But slowly, it began to linger. It watched.  

In the quiet, it listened.

Midway through summer, Arepo added another row of stones to the temple.  

“Wind knocked one off last week,” he explained, dusting off his hands. “Figured I’d make it a bit sturdier.”  

“You’re being silly,” the god said, though not unkindly.  

“Suits me fine,” said Arepo. “Got plenty of silliness to spare.”  

The god said nothing more that day. But the next morning, when Arepo came bearing a bent stalk of barley, he found the wind had swept the altar clear of dust.  

He smiled and laid the stalk down with care.  

So the weeks passed—light work, quiet prayers, moments shared in stillness. The temple grew in layers, slowly, like a sediment of belief. Birds nested nearby. Children began to leave petals in the grass.  

Most ignored it. Some mocked it. Arepo did not mind.  

He was content in the silence.  

But silence is not always peace.  

The sky darkened without warning—no gradual build, no scent of rain in the wind. One day it was clear; the next, it howled.  

The Storm came hungry.  

Lightning struck the hill beyond the olive grove. Wind tore the tiles from Arepo’s roof and flung them like coins. The rain fell not in drops but in sheets—walls of water, merciless and thick.  

By morning, the fields lay flattened. Stalks twisted and broken. Soil turned to slop. The fig tree was split at the trunk.  

The little temple had been scattered like dice.  

Arepo stood among the ruin with his two sons, mud slicked to their knees. They said little as they worked, salvaging what they could. Binding. Lifting. Hauling.  

Only when the sun began to dip again did Arepo return to the hill. He knelt in the wet grass, picked up each stone, and began to rebuild.  

Not as it had been. Better.  

He laid the foundation flatter, wider. Re-stacked with precision. His fingers bled from the edges of the rocks. Still he worked.  

He did not speak until the final stone was placed atop the altar.  

“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he said.  

A wind stirred. The god’s voice came low.  

“Useless work,” it whispered. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it.”  

Arepo sat back on his heels, dirt streaked on his cheeks. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “The storm’s blown over.”  

He reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of flattened wheat, too soggy to eat. He placed it on the stone.  

“Not much of an offering,” he admitted. “But I think I’ll shore up the sides tomorrow. Maybe raise a little roof.”  

The god sighed—a slow, leaf-rattling sigh—but did not argue.  

It nestled once again into the stones.  

And Arepo smiled.