The temple was dim. A flickering wick cast shadows in the dark. Xiao Mu stared at the tree-shaped mark, faintly warm. He knew no one had summoned him, yet something within stirred—a silent call.
He walked to a crumbling wall behind the temple. The bricks bore irregular cracks, like scars left by time. As he touched them, a thought surfaced:
"This temple is strange… like it remembers everyone who's ever been here."
His palm glowed softly in response.
A vision filled his mind: countless strangers kneeling before the Buddha. Some sorrowful, some empty, some simply waiting. No one acknowledged him. No sound—only eyes gazing into the void.
His consciousness sank into a realm beyond logic. Here, wishes weren't pleas—they were contracts with the self.
"A wish is a declaration of one's future.
And the Buddha… merely a witness of time."
He understood then: the temple's secret wasn't mystical power or ghostly guidance—it was a question of existence. Each visitor reflected their deepest longing. The lotus and tree marks weren't vessels of power, but symbols of wishes etched into time.
He stood, no longer seeking answers from the outside. He whispered:
"If there is no Buddha, then a wish is simply the future I promise myself."
The temple held no light, no sanctity—only a profound silence. Like the universe, listening.