![]() He hangs his head and closes his eyes, knows that the attendant is doing the same while kneeling before him, and recites his gratitude towards the fresh food that the gods have provided them with yet again. Jimin covers his yawn with the back of his hand and shifts in his bed to kneel before his breakfast. She straightens out the spoon and looks up with a small frown towards the seer. Next to it is a glass of milk, a few pieces of bread and tomatoes cut into even slices. She places the tray before the mattress, on the floor, and removes the lid that has been placed on the bowl to keep the porridge as warm as possible. “Before that, however, I have brought your breakfast.” You must tidy it before the morning assembly begins, or else the Head Monk will scold you.” There is displeasure painting her tone. “Gifted one, this is no acceptable way to leave your room in. Her socked feet sink into the soft furs that have been laid on the floors and she is careful to step around the opened painting scrolls. She stands into a crouch just long enough to pick up the tray of warm breakfast before she steps inside of the room. When she rises she is expressionless when looking into the room, inside of which she finds her charge already awake, even if just barely. ![]() She slides the wooden door open and drops onto her knees, bows deep enough so that her forehead almost touches the floor. “I will be coming in, gifted one.” A girl’s youthful calls out, though her voice is barely above that of the almost-whisper that the rest of the monks use. Just like an echo, a knock rattles the door of Jimin’s room. Their pale yellow robes, worn tightly wrapped around their bodies and tied together with a black rope that has been looped around the waist multiple times, seem to blend in with the time-worn stone grey of the bridge and the red and gold that the temple had once been painted in. Wrinkled old monks, the eldest ones living in the temple, ring old copper bells in time with the wind and recite blessing prayers, so that the new day can be just as good as the last one. Under the tables there are jugs of milk, brought fresh from the small patches of farmland built by the shore.Īlready people can be seen walking along the bridge that connects the temple to the outside world. Rice or grain porridge, maybe a soup made of vegetables and herbs. As it is done in all temples of this land, the monks prepare simple things to eat. In the kitchens the aroma of warm breakfast pushes against the walls and floats through the open, glass-less windows. The noise, however, never rises enough so that the words can be clearly heard – everything stays strangely muted and eerie. Gradually the soft pitters of naked feet fill the long wooden hallways the whispers of low voices fill in the left-over silence. ![]() One by one the monks awaken from their slumber and start on their morning chores. The temple comes alive with the gongs wake up as well. ![]() The road that connects the two is barely visible, more overgrown than light brown sand path it used to be. On the other side, behind the small farms belonging to the temple and the forest behind them, is a meadow that slowly bleeds into a busy city. Above them high mountains covered in snow loom into the distance. The echo carries off and disappears into the distance, into the forests that seem to stretch far into the horizon. The nature around the lake seems to breathe and wake up with the ringing. The waves glitter in the morning sun and they look like scattered diamonds in the pale orange of the rising sun. The sound bounces off from the calm lake water that embraces the temple and causes ripples to form and float into the lake one by one, like a disturbed flock of birds would fly away from danger. The morning is rung awake by the deep echoing ring of a gong.
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