The monk waited for me at the top of the temple steps. Built into the side of the canyon, they led to a viewing platform that overlooked the waterfall.
A pair of guardian statues flanked the top, patched with patina. They stood on masses of old pipes that seemed to write like serpents beneath their heels.
“There used to be a massive factory here,” he said. “It diverted the falls for power and dumped waste into the river below. We kept the pipes as a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“That it is never too late to change one’s ways.”

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