The city of Beijing rarely saw blue skies these days. A grey blanket hung above, swamping the surroundings in haze and almost obscuring the buildings across the street from sight. China wore a face mask so to not breathe in lungfuls of car exhaust and factory smoke as he walked towards his largest and favourite temple.
It was a holiday, and he was soon drowned in the current of hundreds of people who were aiming for the same destination. The sidewalks around the temple were crowded with beggars - sick and mutilated individuals who hoped to gain charity from the crowd, knowing the people coming to prey might want to increase their value of good deeds in the eyes of the gods. China ignored their hoarse cries and averted his eyes. He did not know how to help them all, so he had learned to harden his heart to the suffering of his own people.
They were gone from sight soon enough, and the polluted air was replaced by a different kind of smoke - heavy, oversweet incense. When China's turn arrived, he laid out his offerings for the large golden statues. They were beautiful, but meaningless; what they represented was not real. China was fully aware of that. Even if his gods existed, they would be powerless in this world ruled by human cruelty. Still, he lighted his incense and knelt on the soft, dirty red cushions to pray. These rituals were part of his being. The Party had tried to erase his culture, and since then he fought to maintain it. Religion was rebellion, and his prayer wasn't meaningless, but a promise to himself, a goal set in order to be fulfilled by his own painfully mortal hands.