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I used to make my pilgrimage to the abandoned chapel atop the mountain because I thought the sky gods could better hear my prayers. But no matter how high I climbed, I could never hear their reply. I still go up every year. Because when I return, I can better hear the quiet gods of the earth below. The ones who speak through a kind word from a stranger, a friend with a cup of tea, a warm meal shared in good company. The ones who answer the little prayers we never give words to. If that's not worth climbing a mountain, I don't know what is.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Lorenzo Colombo
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