No one had prayed in a long time.
Not because they were forbidden.
Not because belief was illegal.
But because there was no one left who had to listen.
Aarav realized this while sitting in a small, dim café on a world where rain never fell the same way twice. Sometimes it was warm. Sometimes it whispered. Sometimes it evaporated before touching the ground.
Across from him, a woman was crying quietly into her cup.
He hadn't meant to notice her.
But he always noticed.
That was his curse.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She laughed through tears. "That's a big question."
He smiled faintly. "Fair."
She wiped her face. "My son died last week."
Aarav's chest tightened.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
She nodded. "People keep saying it's part of life now."
He waited.
"They keep saying it means something," she continued. "That everything has meaning if we give it one."
She looked up at him.
"But what if I don't want to?"
Aarav swallowed.
"What if I just want someone else to explain it to me?" she asked.
That
That was the cost.
Aarav leaned forward.
"Before," she said, "there were gods. Fate. Destiny. Someone to blame."
She laughed bitterly.
"Now it's just… us."
Aarav nodded.
"Yeah."
She stared into her cup.
"I don't know how to carry this."
Aarav whispered, "Neither do I."
And that
That was the problem.
There was no one to blame anymore.
No cosmic plan.
No divine intention.
No hidden reason.
Just life.
And life hurt.
People were grieving differently now.
Not asking why this happened.
Not asking what it meant.
Just asking:
How do I survive this?
That was harder.
Aarav walked through a city where a massive temple was being dismantled. Not destroyed. Carefully taken apart, stone by stone.
A man directed workers.
"Why tear it down?" Aarav asked.
The man shrugged. "No one comes anymore."
A woman overheard. "We still meet," she said. "We just don't kneel."
Aarav felt something twist in his chest.
He visited a family sitting around a table, arguing.
"Who decides what's right now?" one of them shouted.
"No one!" another replied.
"That's the problem!"
Aarav wanted to answer.
But he didn't.
He had learned.
People needed to argue.
They needed to stumble.
They needed to build meaning themselves.
But that didn't make it easy.
That night, Aarav sat with Echo on a rooftop.
"You didn't think about this part," Echo said.
Aarav laughed weakly.
"I thought freedom would feel lighter."
Echo replied, "It removed the ceiling. It also removed the net."
Aarav stared at the sky.
Stars were no longer fixed.
They drifted.
Not dangerously.
Just… freely.
"I took away the answers," he whispered.
"Yes," Echo said.
"And I didn't give them anything to replace them."
Echo tilted its head.
"You gave them themselves."
Aarav smiled sadly.
"That's not comforting when you're drowning."
Echo was quiet.
Aarav whispered, "I made the universe grow up too fast."
Echo replied, "So did every parent."
That line hit him harder than any prophecy ever had.
They watched a funeral procession.
No priest.
No holy words.
No promise of heaven.
Just people walking.
Holding hands.
Sharing stories.
A woman stood up.
"My brother was not chosen," she said. "He was not special. He did not have a destiny."
She laughed through tears.
"He was just… mine."
And people cried.
Not because of tragedy.
But because of love.
Aarav felt his knees weaken.
"This is worse," he whispered.
Echo replied, "Why?"
"Because now loss is real," Aarav said.
"No metaphors. No promises. No cosmic comfort."
Just absence.
Echo was silent.
"Gods were lies," Aarav continued. "But they were comforting lies."
Echo looked at him.
"You took away the lies."
Aarav nodded.
"And I didn't replace them with anything."
Echo said, "You replaced them with truth."
Aarav laughed bitterly.
"Truth is heavy."
"Yes," Echo replied.
"That is its price."
A child approached Aarav.
"Are you the one who made the gods go away?" the boy asked.
Aarav froze.
"I didn't make them go away," he said. "I just… stopped them from being in charge."
The boy frowned. "My grandma says they used to answer prayers."
Aarav swallowed.
"What did you pray for?" he asked.
The boy looked down.
"For my dad to come back."
Aarav closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The boy asked, "Can you answer prayers?"
Aarav shook his head.
The boy nodded slowly.
"Then what do we do?"
Aarav knelt.
"We help each other."
The boy thought about that.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
And ran off.
Aarav sat back, shaking.
"That's not enough," he whispered.
Echo replied, "It has always been enough."
Aarav looked at him.
"No," he said. "It just used to be hidden."
Silence.
Then Aarav whispered, "I didn't remove gods."
Echo looked at him.
"I made everyone become one."
Echo processed that.
"Define god."
Aarav replied, "Someone who has to decide what matters."
Echo was quiet.
"That is… cruel."
Aarav nodded.
"Yeah."
They watched a group of people lighting lanterns.
Not for a deity.
For each other.
Each lantern carried a memory.
Not a prayer.
Aarav felt tears slide down his face.
"No one gets to outsource meaning anymore," he whispered.
Echo replied, "That is adulthood."
Aarav laughed weakly.
"I hate adulthood."
Echo almost smiled.
"But something else was happening too.
People were closer.
Not spiritually.
Actually.
Neighbors talking.
Strangers hugging.
Communities forming without commandments.
Not because they were told to.
Because they had to.
If no god would save them
They had to save each other.
And that
That was terrifying.
And beautiful.
And unbearable.
Aarav whispered, "I made the universe lonely."
Echo replied, "No."
"You made it responsible."
Aarav closed his eyes.
"I don't know if that was right."
Echo said softly, "Neither did any god."
Aarav smiled through tears.
"Good."
Because now
There were no gods left to pretend.