The Weeping Icon

Story

For eons, the saints stood tall in the great cathedrals, their eyes painted with the certainty of gods. They were the bridge between the Architects and the Vessels. But as the “Fall” took hold and the “Great Silence” deepened, the pews grew empty. Humanity did not just lose its faith; it lost its attention.

We forgot their names. We forgot the stories behind their halos. We turned our backs on the altars, leaving the divine to gather dust in the dark.

The painted saints did not grow angry; they grew lonely. And in that loneliness, the paint began to move. The painted saints began to weep when humanity forgot them.

Their grief was so pure, so heavy with the weight of ancient blessings, that it underwent a transmutation. Their tears did not dry; they didn’t evaporate into the air. Their tears turned to gold. As they fell, they stained the cracked stone altars they once blessed—a final, shimmering act of devotion to a world that had abandoned them. They weren’t just weeping; they were re-gilding the ruins.