The shrine itself was unremarkable, but its visitor was not. Vidura's annual pilgrimage was easier now than it was in the old days. The rush to return to the city was no longer necessary since he had stepped down as prime minister, and each year he enjoyed stretching his journey out longer. The hermit greeted him each year in silence, but always offered him tea and food. Neither knew the other's name nor spoke, but each ate together near the fire each night. Vidura had tried to offer his own provisions in the early years, but the hermit always refused. Each year Vidura approached the shrine, and each year he began his vigil. The incense came first, six bundles carefully placed in the basin below the weathered statue. He did not know who the statue was supposed to be, and it did not matter to him. This was not a rite of devotion, but of penance. He chose the shrine forty years ago for its isolation, and it was here their remains were buried. Their names he never learn
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