In the middle of a stretch of rice fields that stretches out like a green carpet, stands an old building with a dull stone fence. The walls are starting to grow moss, the roof is aging with time, and the surrounding yard is embraced by wild grass that grows without hesitation. People call it an old, long-abandoned temple, part of a small fort site that was once a place of refuge and prayer.
The sky hung gray over the faintly blue mountains, as if guarding the secrets of the past hidden behind those walls. The wind blew gently, shaking the yellowed rice and making a soft rustling sound like the whisper of a story from a bygone era.
There was no more steaming incense or footsteps of pilgrims coming. But nature never really leaves it. The trees still grow, the rice fields remain green, and the birds occasionally stop by on the quiet roof. In its silence, the old building seems to be a witness that time may pass, but beauty and tranquility will always find a way to stay.
Among the silence and endless green, the temple still stands not as a ruin, but as a faithful keeper of memories.