They camped in a quiet valley, far from towns and temples. A soft stream whispered nearby. Birds nested overhead. It was a rare peace—earned, not given.
"We've been walking a while," Mariam said, tossing a log onto the fire. "Maybe we should sit. For real."
Eliah nodded. "Not for sleep—but for spirit."
—
That night, they agreed to a collective fast. No food. No fire after dusk. Only water and silence. The stars would be their witness.
"Why do we fast?" the youngest asked.
"To let the body listen to the soul," Eliah answered.
—
They each shared something.
Eron, the scholar, told of losing his family to doctrine—how he taught truths he no longer believed just to survive.
"I read holy words with hollow eyes," he said. "Tonight, I want to believe again."
Thao spoke of nightmares—of rituals that sounded divine but felt wrong, of the guilt that clung even after escape.
"Tonight," he whispered, "I'm letting some of that go."
Mariam didn't talk much. She just said, "I spent years trying to sell faith. Tonight, I want to offer it."
—
Eliah waited until last.
"I'm not leading you," he said. "I'm just walking—and grateful you're walking beside me."
They prayed—not loudly. Not perfectly.
They simply closed their eyes and let light speak in its own way.
—
Later that night, a meteor crossed the sky. A single streak. No thunder. Just beauty.
The youngest gasped. "Is it a sign?"
"Everything is," Mariam said, smiling. "The question is what you decide it means."
—
By dawn, no miracles had happened.
But hearts were lighter.
And the path—though unchanged—felt more shared than ever.