Morning arrived with bells.
Not alarms, not summons, it was just a slow, melodic ringing that drifted through the temple like a reminder rather than a command. Grey woke to it halfway through the sound, sunlight already spilling across the stone floor.
Outside his window, the town was awake.
Children ran through the streets chasing one another, their laughter carrying easily in the thin morning air. Shopkeepers pulled open shutters. Somewhere, bread was baking. At some other place the vegetable vendors had started calling the rated of several vegetables.
Tolstoy leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the street below. "Huh" he said. "For a dying world, it's surprisingly lively."
Faker sat on the edge of his bed, tying his boots. "That's how you know it's trying to survive. The people believe and that faith is carrying this world."
They met the priestess in the courtyard. She stood beneath a small flowering tree, its pale blossoms drifting down around her in lazy spirals. In the daylight, she looked younger. Less like someone holding the weight of a world together by habit.
"Good morning" she said, genuinely.
"A good morning to you too" Faker said taking a half bow.
An acolyte passed by carrying a basket of fruit, nodding politely at them. Another was sweeping fallen petals from the stone paths, humming softly to herself.
Tolstoy gestured around. "So this is what faith looks like?"
"This is what it feels like." The priestess smiled. "People here wake up every day expecting the sun to rise. I think that counts for something."
She began walking, not toward the altar, but out through the temple gates and into the town. "Before we talk about gods and history" she said over her shoulder, "you should see what's being protected."
They walked through narrow streets washed in morning light. People greeted the priestess by name. Some bowed. Others simply smiled. A baker pressed a still-warm roll into Tolstoy's hand without explanation.
"No charge," the man said. "Temple guests."
Tolstoy blinked, then laughed. "I like this place."
The priestess lost her smile for a moment at that remark, but flashed it again instantly.
Grey elbowed him in his side. "Sometimes being quite is an option."
They stopped at a small plaza where a fountain trickled quietly. The water shimmered faintly. Children played at its edge, splashing without care.
Grey watched them for a long moment. "This world doesn't look broken."
"Well, for hem it isn't. And I hope that's what they keep believing." Priestess said with a gloomy expression.
"This place is not that far gone. You could just identify the root cause and fix it." Faker finally spoke as pulled his hat lower. The sunlight was starting to get harsh.
"It's not that easy." She turned to face them fully now, expression calm, almost hopeful.
"History can wait until after dinner," she said. "Today, I just want you to understand why we still believe."
Somewhere above them, bells rang again it was lighter this time.
For a moment, the world felt whole. And that, more than anything else, made what was happening matter.
"You know we forgot to ask, what was the name of this planet?" Faker asked as a thought entered his mind.
"It's Gilbert." Priestess said with a stern expression on her face.
"Gilbert?" Grey leaned in towards her. "You are not joking?"
Tolstoy at this moment was about to laugh.
"There is a story behind that name actually." The priestess said with utmost sincerity.
"Gilbert makes Julia look a thousand better." Tolstoy said out loud.
"Ok we can talk about the names later, let's go forwards." The white robed girl moved ahead.
The town was in the middle of a small celebration.
Not a grand festival, nothing that required banners or speeches, but the kind of thing that happened because the calendar said it should. Stalls lined the square, wooden and mismatched, run by people who knew one another's names. Someone played a stringed instrument badly and loudly. No one complained he got a ton of laughs though.
Tolstoy walked ahead with a skewer of roasted vegetables in one hand and a cup of something warm and sweet in the other. Gilbert seems to be doing okay for itself" he said with a grin on his face.
The priestess smiled. "The people of Gilbert are quite stubborn."
Children darted between adults, chasing paper charms shaped like circles and spirals. They trailed ribbons behind them, laughing whenever the wind caught just right.
Grey watched one of the charms spin. "What do those mean?"
The priestess glanced at them. "Continuity. The shape has no beginning or end."
Faker nodded slowly. "Smart symbolism."
"No" she corrected gently. "Comforting symbolism."
They passed a small stage where an old man was telling a story to a half-circle of listeners. His voice was raspy, but practised.
"…and when the land forgot how to heal, She placed her hands upon it, not to fix it, but to remind it how it once was…"
Tolstoy slowed. "Who's 'She'?"
Faker answered before princess said anything, "The Statue in the temple. He is talking about the goddess of your faith is he not?"
The priestess didn't answer right away. "Everyone has their own version," she said. "That one's for children." she said addressing Tolstoy. and completely sidestepped Faker's question.
Nearby, a woman handed out bread stamped with the same circular mark as the charms. People took it with thanks, some murmuring a short phrase before eating. Not a prayer—more like habit.
Faker noticed. "They don't even think about it, do they?"'
"No," the priestess said. "That's the point."
Music swelled. Someone tripped and laughed. For a while, nothing was wrong.
Then a child cried out.
It wasn't loud. Nor was it panicked. Just confused.
Everyone turned.
One of the paper charms had stopped spinning midair. It hung there, motionless, before dropping to the ground like dead weight.
The wind hadn't stopped.
A few people laughed awkwardly. Someone clapped, assuming it was a trick. The old storyteller faltered for half a breath before continuing, voice just a little louder than before.
The priestess had gone very still.
Grey felt it then it was a faint pressure, like a skipped heartbeat in the world itself.
"Does that happen often?" Faker asked quietly.
"No," she said.
The wind picked up again. The next charm spun as it should. The square relaxed.
People went back to smiling.
Tolstoy exhaled. "Guess even miracles get tired."
The priestess watched the fallen charm for a long moment before bending to pick it up.
Its ribbon had frayed at the knot.
"Enjoy the day" she said softly, more to herself than to them. "Tomorrow… we talk about why things like this didn't use to happen."
Above them, bells rang—slightly out of rhythm this time.
No one else seemed to notice.
And the goddess, unnamed and omnipresent, remained woven into laughter, bread, and habit... holding the world together one ordinary day at a time.