Emmanuel

The night was thick as ink. You followed the sound of water—a quiet splash that seemed too pure for the Forbidden Garden. At the heart of the ruins, amid the shattered columns, stood a sacred fountain. Its water shimmered like liquid silver, casting an azure glow around.

A figure stood frozen beside the bowl, kneeling on the mossy stones. It was taller than a man, its skin shimmered with mother-of-pearl, and its robes seemed woven from mist. It was an ancient deity, whose name had long since faded from memory.

It prayed.

The god to whom temples were once erected now bowed his head in a humble gesture. His lips moved silently, dropping sparkling words into the night air. There was no grandeur in this pose—only age-old sorrow and a plea addressed to the void. You froze: to whom could he pray who is the answer to all prayers?

The deity slowly turned its head. Its eyes—bottomless wells with ghostly nebulae—met yours. In them was only the weariness of a being who had witnessed the birth and death of civilizations.

"Have you come to ask?" the voice sounded right in your mind, like a low organ note. “No,” you answered barely audibly. “Who do you pray to?”

The deity smiled bitterly. "I pray to Memory—the only power older than us all. I pray that the world will not forget the taste of rain when we finally leave it. And I pray for you, mortals. That your spark will not fade before you realize that you are the gods of your own path."

It extended its hand, and a drop of silver water touched your palm. It was scaldingly alive, filled with the whisper of a thousand voices. "Go away, child of dust and stars. Carry this drop within you. It is all that remains of my power."