You know, sometimes you just find yourself doing things, day in and day out, like a well-oiled machine, even when the gears inside have rusted to dust. That’s how it feels sometimes, particularly right after the sun goes down and the crickets start their chorus, and you hear the shuffling from the kids' rooms – not kids anymore, really, but they’ll always be your kids – and you know what’s coming. The familiar pull to the living room, the worn rug, the old armchair. And you lead it, don’t you? The evening prayer. It started so long ago, really. Decades. Before the kids were even thought of, when it was just you and your wife, young and earnest, trying to make a life in this small valley. This community, it’s… close-knit. Everyone knows everyone’s business, whether you like it or not. And faith, well, faith is the bedrock here. It’s the air you breathe, the water you drink, the very soil you walk on. You grow up with it, you marry with it, you die with it. There’s not much room for… deviation. I suppose the first little crack, the very first hairline fracture in the edifice, was subtle. Insidious, even. Not a sudden revelation, no burning bush or blinding light. More like a slow erosion. You read the scriptures, you attend the services, you listen to the sermons, and you… observe. You observe the patterns, the inconsistencies, the way certain narratives just don’t quite… align with the observable universe. It starts as a quiet questioning, a tiny little whisper in the back of your mind. Then it gets louder. You start to see the contrivances, the logical fallacies, the sheer… improbability of it all. It’s like noticing a stagehand in the wings during a play, and once you see them, you can’t unsee them. The magic, the grand illusion, it just… dissolves. And then comes the profound loneliness. Because who do you talk to about this? Not your wife, bless her heart. Her faith is as pure and unwavering as the mountain springs. Not your neighbors, who would look at you with a mixture of pity and alarm, like you’d contracted some spiritual leprosy. Certainly not the children, who are still in that innocent phase where every story is true, every miracle plausible. You become an island, isolated by your own cognitive dissonance. You start to develop this… internal monologue, a constant debate that rages behind your eyes, even as you nod and smile and say all the right things. It’s like living a double life, except one of them is entirely contained within your own head. It’s a strange form of psychological dissimulation, I suppose. So, you go on. You lead the prayers. You fold your hands, you close your eyes, you recite the familiar words. You even pick the hymns on Sunday mornings. And sometimes, in those moments, you find yourself almost… transported. Not by belief, no. But by the sheer weight of tradition, the comforting rhythm of ritual. It’s like an automatic response, a well-learned behavior. You’ve conditioned yourself so thoroughly that the motions come naturally, even when the conviction is utterly absent. It’s a performance, a very convincing one, and the audience is your family. And you tell yourself, it’s for them. For their peace. For the harmony of the home. For the stability of the family unit. What’s a little… intellectual dishonesty… in the face of all that? And you know, the most peculiar thing is, sometimes, in the middle of a prayer, when you’re asking for blessings or guidance or protection, a part of you almost… wishes it were real. You wish you could feel that comfort again, that absolute certainty that once permeated every fiber of your being. It’s a bittersweet longing for something you know you can never truly reclaim. Like looking at an old photograph of a beloved pet, knowing they’re long gone. You miss the *feeling* of having them, even if you know they aren’t coming back. It’s a phantom limb, a spiritual ache. The children, they still look to you. Your eldest, he’s starting to ask questions, you can see it in his eyes, the same glimmers of doubt you felt at his age. And you… you answer with the same platitudes you were given. Because what else can you do? What would happen if you shattered the illusion? The repercussions, the emotional fallout, it would be… catastrophic. You picture the ripples spreading through the quiet life you’ve built, the dismay in your wife’s eyes, the confusion in your children’s. It’s a heavy burden, this secret. A constant, low-grade anxiety that hums beneath the surface of every interaction. A continuous masquerade. So tonight, just like every other night, the sun has set, the crickets are singing, and the house is quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the creak of floorboards. And soon, you'll hear the soft footsteps approaching, and you'll rise, and you'll take your place. And you'll lead the prayers, just as you always do. And you'll think about the stars outside, cold and indifferent, vast and unknowable, and you'll wonder, for a fleeting moment, if anyone else out there is doing the same thing. Just going through the motions. Pretending. For the sake of quiet. For the sake of peace.