High in the Himalayan mountains, hidden among the snow-capped peaks, we stumbled upon an ancient temple, lost to time. The path leading to it was treacherous, winding through dense forests and steep cliffs, but we were drawn to it, as if the mountain itself was guiding us.

As we arrived at the temple, the air grew still, the only sound being the whisper of the wind through the trees. The temple stood in silence, its stones covered in moss, the carvings on its walls faded with age. Yet, despite the years of neglect, there was a sense of peace that enveloped the place, as though the spirits of the mountains themselves watched over it.

Inside, we found a small shrine, and beside it, a collection of old scrolls. The priest who once tended to this sacred space had long since passed, but his devotion was still tangible in the air. One scroll, its edges frayed and ink blurred, caught our attention. It was a record of his final days, written with a hand that trembled, yet still carried a profound message.

The priest’s last words, penned just before his passing, spoke of his deep connection with the mountains and the divine:

“The earth, the sky, and the snow all speak to me. I have learned that the greatest meditation is not to withdraw from the world but to immerse oneself in it, to listen to its whispers and accept its teachings.”

We read these words in silence, understanding that the true essence of devotion lies in embracing the world around us, not as a distraction, but as a reflection of the divine. With reverence, we took the scroll, feeling its wisdom settle into our hearts. The forgotten temple had shared its secret, and in doing so, had become a part of our journey. The spirit of the mountains would live on through the words of the priest, passed from one soul to another, quietly teaching us to listen more deeply.