A small obscure hamlet, in which lay a small obscure place of worship. No grand temple, no eldritch altar, just a house-shaped spot to contemplate, to speak to the divine, and hope maybe some part of its multifaceted majesty heard. But here we see it as empty, looking as if no mortal foot had trod here in quite a while, or perhaps as if one had yet to do so.
A god came to the chapel one day long ago, or perhaps one night yet to be (gods, like some small and obscure places, have a curious looseness regarding time), name unimportant to this tale, a god older than wonder or joy, and older certainly than sorrow or regret. The god contemplated the chapel, as if both worshiping and being worshipped, then gazed around in a way only gods can do at things only gods can see. "It was a good run then?"
The walls shivered with weariness and the gold fixtures seemed as if they spoke lowly (or perhaps they did indeed speak; gods can perceive many impossible things): "Humans are... difficult."
"And fragile and selfish and frightened," laughed the god. "But sometimes... sometimes, they can surprise you..." -- Anon Guest
Here is a church... It is old, and made of stones seemingly stacked haphazardly on top of one another. It looks like it is three good sneezes away from complete collapse, but it has looked like that for centuries. The builders seemed to know that unattended buildings fall down, and therefore built the falling down into the overall structure. It is, in fact, staying up by being in a constant state of falling down.
Here is the steeple... Some miracles just can not be wrought by the hands of intelligent beings. This steeple fell in an ancient storm and all the collapse happened at once. It's now a verdant hillock of moss, weeds, tuffets and at least one very determined tree. Whether it was a bell tower or a lookout over the hamlet below is a matter of debate.
Open the door... The door is always open, as all doors to places of worship should be. The metal is old wrought iron and the hinges have rusted into position, leaving enough space between the ancient wood planking for a potential person to make their way inside. There are no people.