The streets of Three Corners grew quieter as the evening settled in. Most of the day’s merchants had closed their stalls, and the last wagons rattled down the main road toward home. Lamps were being lit in the windows of homes and inns, and soft trails of smoke drifted upward from chimneys. Winnum walked at an easy pace through the square, feeling the ache in his legs from the week’s travel. The pain reminded him of bruises and cuts from Azandra’s rescue. His body was healing, but his thoughts felt heavier than usual.

  He passed a small bakery where a woman drew the shutters closed. The warm smell of cooling bread still drifted out from the crack in the door. It hit him unexpectedly. Bread had been a comfort when he was a novice at the monastery. The memory made him slow his steps. He had lived on simple meals and simple teachings then. Life had felt clear. Now everything felt tangled, and he wondered if it had been an illusion all along.

  He turned a corner and stopped.

  Ahead of him stood the Sun-Creator Temple. Its tall stone walls rose above the road, and its narrow spires caught the last of the daylight. The gold leaf on the tips glowed softly even in the fading dusk. Light always found the temple. It had during his youth, during his training, and even during the hard years that came after.

  A familiar tension tightened in his chest. For a moment he considered turning back. He had not visited a temple in months, well at least, on the inside. He did not know if he was ready to feel everything he had buried.

  But something kept him still. He looked up at the sunburst crest carved above the entrance. Even from here he could smell the faint traces of incense drifting from inside. Resin. Dried herbs. He had breathed that same smell every morning during his years as a monk.

  Before he could change his mind, his feet carried him forward.

  The doors were broad oak, smooth from the hands of generations. He paused, placed his palm against the wood, and pushed.

  Inside, the temple was warm. Candles flickered along the walls. Voices murmured from the main hall where the late vesper was taking place. Soft chanting rose and fell in gentle waves. Priests and acolytes walked among the pews wearing sunburst medallions. Some nodded politely at him.

  Winnum stood at the edge of the room. His eyes traced the stone pillars and archways. He used to know every part of a temple like this one. The high ceilings, the polished floor, the careful arrangement of candles. It had once brought him peace. Now he searched himself for any sign of that old feeling. He found nothing.

  He turned to leave.

  A hand rested gently on his shoulder.

  “Come, brother. Unburden yourself.”

  Winnum froze. He turned slowly and saw a face he had not expected to find. Deacon Albreth stood there, older than Winnum remembered. His beard, once dark, was nearly white. His face was lined in ways that spoke of age and loss, but his eyes were steady and familiar.

  “Deacon,” Winnum said quietly.

  Albreth looked down at Winnum’s arms. “You no longer wear the chain.”

  Winnum pulled his sleeve away from the deacon’s gaze. “I left the Order,” he said simply.

  Albreth nodded as if the answer did not surprise him. “Some come, some go, and some return,” the deacon replied.

  Winnum met his eyes. “The light does the same.”

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  “It does not,” Albreth said, his voice steady. “But we do not always understand its work.”

  Winnum’s jaw clenched. He felt a familiar anger begin to rise. “Is the death of a boy what the light had planned? Was that the design for my brother’s life and mine? Because if it was, I choose not to return to it.”

  Albreth did not argue. He simply looked at Winnum with a quiet grief that made Winnum uncomfortable.

  “I feel your pain,” the deacon said.

  “My pain is my own,” Winnum replied. His voice was sharp. He felt it crack slightly. “My scars will not be soothed by words or light.”

  Albreth nodded. His expression did not change, but there was a heaviness in his eyes. “Loss is a powerful enemy of our joy.”

  The vesper chorus rose in the main hall. The sound filled the temple like a single breath being drawn and released. It made Winnum feel caught between wanting to stay and wanting to run.

  “Walk with me,” Albreth said.

  Winnum hesitated. Then he followed.

  They moved down a narrow passageway along the outer wall. Sconces cast warm light over the stone floor. The silence in the corridor felt different from the main hall. It was calmer. Less crowded. The echo of their steps seemed to follow them.

  “When I was a young deacon,” Albreth began, “I married.”

  Winnum looked at him in surprise. “You were married? I don’t remember anything like—”

  “I do not speak of it often,” Albreth said. “She was the brightest part of my life. Her name was Mara.”

  He took a slow breath. “She became ill one winter. A fever. The healers tried everything. She died before the spring thaw. I believe she might have been carrying our first child, but I will never know.”

  Winnum felt his throat tighten. “I did not know.”

  “You would not have,” Albreth said. “I rarely speak about it.”

  He kept his eyes forward as they walked. “I was angry. I doubted everything. I wandered for months. I left my post and went to Arnathe. I walked the Low Quarter where people suffered things worse than what I had endured.”

  “What did you find there?” Winnum asked.

  “People who lived with grief every day,” Albreth said. “Some held tightly to their faith. Some rejected it the moment loss touched them. But the world moved on, and each person found their own way to keep moving.”

  They reached a tall arched window. Outside, lantern lights shone along the streets. The glimmer reflected on Albreth’s face, softening the lines there.

  “I learned,” he said, “that our lives are not meant to last forever. One of us was always going to die first. I hated that truth. But accepting it allowed me to live again.”

  He turned to face Winnum. “You do not have to love what has happened to you. But your brother is not lost. He is in the halls of Gen Haba, where the Creator keeps those who have passed. He waits in peace.”

  Winnum felt something inside him shift. It was not comfort. Not yet. But the familiar bitterness felt slightly less sharp.

  “I do not know if I believe that,” Winnum said slowly.

  “You do not have to,” Albreth replied. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Belief is not a door that opens all at once. It is something you step toward when you are ready.”

  Winnum let out a long breath. “I do not know if I will ever be ready.”

  Albreth gave a small nod. “Then walk at your own pace.”

  He rested a hand on Winnum’s arm. “Your brother loved you. That much is certain if you carry this pain. And if there is even a chance that he sees you still, then you should live in a way that honors that love.”

  The words caught Winnum off guard. He turned his gaze away so Albreth would not see his eyes growing hot.

  Albreth stepped back. “I will leave you to your thoughts.”

  He walked away slowly, his robe trailing behind him.

  Winnum stayed in the corridor for a long moment. The sounds of the vesper hymn drifted gently from the main hall. He could not make out the words audibly, but the melody was familiar, and he knew every line in his heart. It was a hymn about redemption. It reminded him of nights when he and his brother had knelt side by side in a smaller temple, whispering prayers they did not fully understand.

  Finally, Winnum stepped back into the main hall.

  He approached the nearest pew and knelt. His hands trembled slightly. He closed his eyes. For a moment, there was only silence.

  He whispered a vesper.

  It was not long. It was not polished. It was not spoken with certainty. But it was the first one he had said in a long time.

  He prayed for a boy he would never stop missing.