In the depths of the forgotten Kali temple, Kent and Mona began working silently in that debris. Silence blanketed the ancient ruins, broken only by the gentle splash of water and the occasional clink of tools on stone.
Vikram Das, sleeves rolled to the elbow, poured bucket after bucket of fresh water over the moss-draped stone pillars. The water shimmered in the sunlight, dislodging decades of dirt, grime, and neglect. Nearby, the well's natural spring overfilled its stone ring—its water cold, ancient, and uncorrupted.
Mona knelt by one of the central pillars, the thick stone carved with deep engravings now hidden by centuries of dust. She held a brush in one hand, a scraping knife in the other, her brows furrowed in silent devotion to her craft. The symbols were starting to emerge—snakelike patterns and script from an age before history remembered.
For a while, neither spoke. The temple was not just a ruin—it was a being, waiting to be understood.
