A daily routine of silently sweeping away fallen leaves that gather in the courtyard, while thick moss sits soundlessly in every concave gap of the roof tiles, has lain pillowed upon hundreds of years of time.

They say that once, divine palanquins ascended until the mountainside shook, and the sound of prayers asking for oversight echoed loudly across the high wooden porch, but now, only the chirping of a few sparrows carefully wakes the morning of the shrine wrapped in silence.

He has never once resented the humans who forgot him. Just as the seasons circulate and the autumn leaves color and eventually fade, he has simply watched calmly for a long time as the human heart is like the passing wind.