Toku did not expect to find temples.

  Not because he had anything against religion—he just distinctly remembered never designing one.

  Back when he was writing, he’d thought:

  (If there’s no suffering, people won’t need gods.)

  Apparently, he had underestimated humanity.

  He discovered the first one by accident.

  Kindred had suggested a walking route labeled “Scenic & Quiet.”Toku assumed that meant trees.

  Instead, the path opened into a wide courtyard of white stone and open sky. No walls. No gates. Just a circular space where people sat, talked softly, or simply watched the clouds.

  At the center stood no statue.

  Just an empty platform.

  Toku walked up to someone arranging cushions.

  “…What is this place?” he asked.

  “Oh,” the man said, smiling, “it’s a contemplation hall.”

  “So… not a temple?”

  “It can be, if you need one.”

  That answer did not clarify anything.

  Over the next hour, Toku learned that religion in this world hadn’t disappeared.

  It had… changed shape.

  Without fear, there was nothing to beg protection from.

  Without tragedy, there was nothing to blame fate for.

  Without punishment, there was no need for forgiveness.

  So belief had evolved into something quieter.

  Philosophy practiced together.

  One group believed existence itself was miraculous—not because it was fragile, but because it was shared.

  “We gather to appreciate being conscious at the same time,” a woman explained.

  “You meet weekly to… be aware?”

  “Yes.”

  “…That’s strangely compelling.”

  Another community studied what they called The Chain of Kindness—the idea that every good act rippled outward in ways no one could fully measure.

  “We don’t worship a deity,” their facilitator said.

  “We observe the pattern.”

  “So it’s like moral physics?”

  They beamed.

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  “Yes! Exactly!”

  Toku immediately regrett’t giving it such a cool description.

  There were dozens of these groups.

  None exclusive.

  None claiming absolute truth.

  People attended whichever resonated with them that day.

  Faith here wasn’t about certainty.

  It was about perspective.

  Still, Toku couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

  He sat through a gathering where participants shared gratitude aloud.

  “For the chance to learn.”

  “For companionship.”

  “For another peaceful day.”

  All sincere.

  All heartfelt.

  And yet…

  No one sounded desperate.

  No one clung to belief like it was keeping them afloat.

  Because nothing here was trying to drown them.

  Afterward, Toku asked an older woman sweeping the courtyard:

  “If no one is suffering… why search for meaning at all?”

  She leaned on her broom, considering the question.

  “Because comfort answers how to live,” she said.

  “But it doesn’t answer why we want to.”

  Toku blinked.

  “That’s… not something I wrote.”

  She laughed softly.

  “You didn’t need to. People always ask that eventually.”

  He looked around again.

  No towering cathedrals.

  No rituals performed out of obligation.

  Just people choosing, over and over, to reflect on their existence.

  Back on Earth, belief had often been born from fear of loss.

  Here, it seemed to come from curiosity instead.

  That difference fascinated him.

  And unsettled him.

  Because even in a world without pain…

  People still searched for something beyond comfort.

  As he prepared to leave, Toku noticed the empty platform in the center again.

  “No symbol?” he asked.

  “It’s intentional,” the woman replied.

  “That space is for whatever someone needs to place there. An idea. A question. A hope.”

  “…Or doubt?”

  “Especially doubt.”

  Walking home, Toku felt lighter.

  But also thoughtful in a way that didn’t resolve neatly.

  He had written a world designed to remove humanity’s worst burdens.

  Yet humanity had arrived anyway.

  Still questioning.

  Still wondering.

  Still reaching for meaning, even when nothing was wrong.

  Toku glanced up at the evening sky.

  “…I guess peace doesn’t end the story,” he said quietly.

  “If anything, it just gives people more time to ask bigger questions.”

  And somewhere in the vastness of the world he had only partially imagined—

  those questions were still spreading.