Every year, on the longest night, the villagers climbed the rocky path to the hilltop chapel. Lanterns swayed gently, casting flickering halos across somber faces. They gathered beneath the cracked stone arches, voices blending into a chorus of forgiveness.

“We forgive you,” Elder Maren intoned, his voice worn by years of repetition. “For leaving us alone, for silence in our prayers, we forgive you.”

“We forgive you,” echoed the villagers, their breath forming clouds that rose like unanswered prayers into the frozen night sky.

This year, though, the wind carried their chant farther, beyond the hills, beyond the sleeping fields, into the deep and silent woods. This year, something listened.

As Elder Maren raised his hands to close the ritual, a sound whispered through the trees, a voice woven from wind and darkness.

“And do you forgive yourselves?”

The villagers froze, eyes wide, searching the shadows.

“Who speaks?” Elder Maren demanded.

“I am what you have missed in your mourning,” the voice said. “You have forgiven me year upon year, yet you carry burdens heavier than stones. Do you forgive yourselves for all you blame upon me?”

Silence settled among the villagers, broken only by the quiet sob of the blacksmith, the sigh of the midwife, the breath of Elder Maren.

“Forgiveness is yours to give,” the voice continued, softer now. “Free yourselves, and perhaps you’ll find I’ve never truly abandoned you.”

The villagers stood stunned, hearts open to the cold night. Slowly, a single voice lifted—Elder Maren’s—clear, unsteady, but unburdened:

“We forgive ourselves.”

One by one, voices joined, rising stronger, until the hillside chapel was filled with warmth.

And somewhere, deep within the darkness, a presence smiled, comforted at last by a village ready to heal itself.

The End