and that was the grief that dazzled:

The shrine shifts around you again, and you find yourself sheltered in the makeshift tent you constructed for yourself—a kind of lean-to made of tarp and scavenged rebar and what remains of a fallen bridge. It is still dark, and while the "stars" of flaming debris are no longer falling, the occasional screams and cries of panic in the distance have not relented. Nor will they.

( The wanderer's story: )

The shrine shifts around you again, and you're sitting in the wreckage of a ruined building—a place of worship, to be precise, or at least half of one, two of its outer walls collapsed and the ornate glass of its windows mostly shattered—with your head in your hands. It is still dark, and while the "stars" of flaming debris are no longer falling, the occasional screams and cries of panic in the distance have not relented.

( The priest's story: )