Father Mackenzie knelt at the chapel door and brushed pine needles from the threshold. He wanted pilgrims. He wanted the lost. Behind him, the stone path lay swept clean, every weathered slab bare to the morning. He had pulled the grass himself. He had carried each stone back into place. Inside, the old chapel waited. Cushions sat in tidy rows along the bench, plumped and straightened the night before. Dust drifted in the colored light. No one came. No one had come for a long time. He walked the path to the trees and waited. A woman passed on the trail beyond, basket on her hip. She glanced at the open door and kept walking. A boy followed, then an old man with a cane. None of them turned. Father Mackenzie called out once. His voice did not carry far. He returned to the chapel and sat on the cushioned bench alone. The path outside stayed empty. He understood now that sweeping stones was not enough. If desperate souls would not come to him, he would have to go down into the villages and find them himself.