The temple grew quieter still, the air tinged with something eerie. Xiao Mu felt a strange dislocation—like time had plucked a thread of mystery from the dark and suspended it in the air.
Suddenly, unfamiliar scripture appeared on the wall—not from any Buddhist text he knew, but written in the childish handwriting of his own early memories. Each stroke felt like something dreamt, never spoken aloud. He had never written his wishes down.
As he stared at the words, a soft breathing sound reached his ears—though no one was around. It felt like the breath came from within him, from a forgotten corner of his being. A part of himself, long buried, was awakening.
Fear crept in. He turned to leave, but saw atop the temple hall a broken Buddha statue—its head long gone, only the base remaining. He froze. Beneath his feet, it felt like he was standing on a memory that was now watching him.
A folded leaf on the altar began to burn—not with flame, but with a rising glow. A blurred face emerged from the light. It had no features, yet it smiled at him.
"Your wish is too heavy.
It has drawn the Whisperers who should not come."
Pain surged from the mark on his palm—not physical, but a tearing of his very being. He felt himself unraveling, his identity fragmented into shards of longing, rearranged by an unseen force.
The temple was no longer a place of reflection. It had become a ritual space, summoning the forgotten or abandoned spirits of wishes—not ghosts, but conscious remnants of unfulfilled prayers.
The wick finally died. Darkness enveloped the temple. And in that darkness, Xiao Mu heard a prayer he had never spoken aloud: "May I not seek light in the dark,
but become light within it."