Nimisa Monastery was ancient. Five hundred years had shaped its gray stone, erasing any human-made flourishes of beauty, making it one with the soil and the green that surrounded it. Its vast entrance arch, set above steps that curved like a crescent moon, shone as if emeralds had been carved into its walls. But lichen and vines were what bejeweled it, not gemstones. They were so oddly, beautifully lustrous that Bhumika had to pause momentarily in her walk toward the monastery’s steps simply to stare up in awe.
