Abandoned Village #22

In a quiet secluded part of the countryside, nestled within ancient forests of long forgotten dwellings and pathways, lies a small inconspicuous village whose dilapidated buildings are barely standing in defiance of the force of nature that is attempting to consume them.

You can see it used to be a happy place, the once brightly painted buildings now faded and peeling, moss strewn roofs sagging from years of neglect, yet doors are still closed and windows unbroken.

It is a captured moment of yesteryear, yet closer inspection reveals that someone must still reside here - telltale signs easy to miss but are there nonetheless.
A subtle path between buildings, flagstones glossy and worn, but clear of debris and dirt, as if swept regularly.
A water mill still turning, powered by a rivulet barely enough for the job - another indication that someone was performing at least rudimentary maintenance on the machinery within.

And the shrine.

The shrine, gleaming with the full force of belief and passion, standing out amongst the surroundings like a beacon. It stands proud in the centre of the village, master of all and commands attention. It is a temple to an unknown deity, four non-descript faces upon an intricately carved wooden body of symbols and patterns surveying well past the boundary walls and beyond, a talisman that subconsciously warns "this is my village, and I shall protect it".

And it has been loved.

The wood has been treated and polished. It looks both old and new at the same time, imperceptible repairs save for the difference of the grain.

Things are not all they seem to be.