On the wind-swept hill of an ancient city, a boy stood before two temples.
One was crumbling, its columns scarred by centuries, its roof open to the sky. The other was pristine - newly built, polished marble, gates shining like dawn.
An elder approached and asked, “Which will you enter?”
The boy pointed to the shining temple. “It is beautiful. Surely the gods live there.”
The elder smiled. “And yet, the oracles once spoke from the ruins.”
They entered together into the broken hall. Inside, weeds grew through the stones, sunlight poured through the shattered roof, and a single throne was carved into the rock - worn smooth by the weight of those who once sat seeking visions.
The boy touched the seat and felt something stir within him. Not a voice from above, but from deep inside. It spoke not of victories or gold, but of paths yet to be walked, of choices yet to be made.
They stepped back into the daylight, and the boy asked, “Why did the gods leave this place?”
The elder replied, “They never left. We only stopped listening in the wind and the stone.”
And from that day, the boy learned that temples fall, but the oracle lives wherever the seeker dares to sit still.

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